Who needs Simon and Garfunkel…

when we have Garfunkel and Oates, a fun and femme LA duo who make a living mocking the absurdities of everyday 20something existence? In perhaps my favorite Youtube video of 2009 they take a jab at pregnant biddies. Given the number of high school friends I have who are fertile turtles, I have recently found myself surrounded by baby bumps.

And Garfunkel and Oates capture my less than ladylike sentiment towards the matter in their satiric song, “Pregnant Women Are Smug.” As they so aptly phrase it, You’re just giving birth now. You’re not Mother Earth now. While bringing another human life into the world is hugely significant, it does not diminish the value of people– namely, me– who have yet to take the leap into parenthood.

While I may not be contributing to the economic stability of Pampers Inc., I am still managing to find a way to contribute to society. Goodness knows I keep Starbucks and Apple in business these days. Oh, and every publication with the words “New York” in the title. Simply stated, I find ways to fuel my local economy sans bottle nipples and baby wipes.

But rather than simply praise the poignance of the lyrics and their relation to my life, I’ll let you be the judge of G&O’s musical genius:

Grandma B: The Woman Who Breathes Giggles Into Me

I have never met an elderly Jewish lady who didn’t make me smile. I can’t quite explain why the Hebrew women of the geriatric generation have the effect on me, but without fail they do. And perhaps the most noteworthy woman from this category is my grandmother, who at age 79 naturally maintains her full head of black hair.

But Grandma B isn’t just a hair stylist’s dream come true, she’s a first generation immigrant who struggled in the Heights as her parents tried to gain a footing on American soil after fleeing Nazi Germany. The struggles of her youth stay with her today, and she can best be described as the eternal pessimist. She has an uncanny ability to find the negative in almost every situation.

And now, while she struggles to gain her footing again, Grandma B has become particularly dependent on my grandfather, a man who my mother is becoming eerily similar to as they days pass. She expects him to respond to her every beckon call, and if say an 84 year old wheelchair-bound female neighbor should call on his services, Grandma B goes on the attack.

The other day, said neighbor asked if Grandma B could lend her some mayonnaise, as she was preparing her Thanksgiving feast and lacking a vital ingredient. Well, Grandma B paused, thought it over, and then declined to fulfill her request. When asked why she denied her neighbor an ingredient that was notably chilling on her refrigerator door, Grandma B nearly shouted, “It’s not proper for a man to bring over mayonnaise.”

You see, Grandpa B obliges this neighbor every few days when he stops by to plug in her wheelchair so it may recharge. And, well, electrical appliances fall within the man’s domain. But kitchen ingredients, heaven forbid. His very machismo would come under attack. Or, as Grandma B phrased it, “And let’s say he did bring it over, what would he do with it? It’s not like he can cook.”

Silencing my latent Wellesley feminist, I laughed. Quite hard. To think that after fifty years of women’s lib my grandmother still subscribes to antiquated notions of gender roles is, as much as I hate to admit it on my blog, rather hilarious. It’s as of she has been living inside a time capsule, and no one has yet informed her that it’s 2011. 2/3 of people across the globe own cell phones. Record players are antiques. And two year olds play with iPads on the subway, which by the way no longer costs a nickel, but a whopping $2.25.

When your biggest fan is a five year old boy.

For those who wonder how I occupy my time when I’m not condemning criminal defendants to eternal damnation, I will now clarify: babysitting. Yes, from newborns to tweens, I cater to them all. But like any parent, I have my favorites.

Aldie, a five year old going on thirty, is first on my list. Aside from his intelligence (remember the IVF conversation?), Aldie has an uncanny way of making a very gray Wednesday infinitely better. He is living proof that age ain’t nothing but a number.

This morning, for example, I awoke to the sound of my phone crashing to the ground. Strike one. Then, in a mad dash for an early morning subway, I was the victim of some very aggressive train doors, which left me black and blue. Strike two. And when I finally emerged from the train, somewhat scathed, I discovered my umbrella had gone to heaven or hell or wherever inanimate objects go when they cease to be of human use. Strike three. Simply stated, I was in my dark and twisty place by the time I rung Aldie’s door bell.

But then he answered and we departed for his school uptown. We had a good forty minutes on the A and B trains to discuss life, liberty, and my inability to achieve happiness. And being the wise beyond his years sort of boy that he is, Aldie succeeded in temporarily assuaging all my doubts.

To begin, he noticed I was chewing gum. Wondering why I felt compelled to chew at such an ungodly early hour of the day, he questioned me. I responded that my stomach was a bottomless pit, but that frankly– given my ever expanding hips– I simply could not afford to consume calories at all hours of the day. In other words, I was using gum as a calorie free food replacement because I’m, well, not the tiniest of individuals.

Without batting an eyelash, Aldie replied, “You’re not fat at all. In fact, you are beautiful. I like your shape.” He then proceeded to rub my belly, an odd but somewhat uplifting action. Aldie concluded this brief conversation by offering a piece of his chocolate croissant. What a mensch.

But Aldie, being the perceptive one that he is, realized I was still considerably upset. When he inquired as to why, I replied that I was feeling like a B student these days. He was confused and said he was certain I got straight As in school. I explained that it was a metaphor; that I felt I was not the success story I had hoped to be at 22. Instead of climbing mountains, I was just sitting at the foot of them– partially out of fear of the climb, but largely because I doubted my abilities to climb the aforementioned mountains.

His response: “Yaffa, you’re being crazy. You juggle being my babysitter, putting bad guys in prison, and writing your heart out. And on top of it all, you’re a genuinely nice person. I kind of want to me the boy version of you when I grow up.” Somewhat flabbergasted, I stared in disbelief. When had my source of strength become a five year old child?

While his language was simple, his sentiment was spot on. I needed to stop being my biggest critic and just live in the moment– enjoy the here and now– and most importantly stop comparing myself to my friends, who quite frankly were traversing entirely different mountains than I was. I needed to learn to love me for me, an idea Aldie informed me would be the only means to find “someone special.”

“How can you expect someone to like you if you don’t like yourself?” And that, in a nutshell, is why I want to adopt a five year old named Aldie.

Letter to my 12 year old self.

In the process of fall cleaning, I happened upon a letter I wrote to myself at the beginning of my senior year of college. It was a 500-word piece, which my English teacher mailed to me the following year, and it has inspired me to begin a new series, in which rather than writing letters to my future self, I write blogs posts to my former self.

Dear Future Caffeine Addict,

You have a problem. And while you hate to ask for help, eventually you must seek it. You can’t go on living this way, pretending like everything is hunky-dory and peachy-keen. You need to come forward– in this case, in the classroom– and sit where you can see the blackboard. Or better yet, admit your eye sight is deteriorating and make an optometrist appointment.

I know, I know. Your health insurance only covers big ol’ nerd glasses, but word to the wise, in ten years those will be super stylish. Anyone with an ounce of hipster will be sporting them on the streets of Williamsburg. Or, stated in terms you might appreciate, you’ll be ahead of the curve– just where you like to be.

Seriously, though, how many times are you going to ask Malkie to borrow her notes after class? Look, I get it; you hate participating in what you deem is frivolous classroom discussion. You rather sit in the back-right corner of the classroom and write a meta-political reflection on the state of African health policies regarding HIV/AIDS, malaria, and tuberculosis.

But you can’t always be an introvert. Eventually you have to engage, and you know what would assist in an extrovert-oriented endeavor? A nice pair of brand spanking new glasses. And remember that while they may be nerdy, you are in fact a nerd. Embrace it. It’ll be what gets you into your dream college and study abroad program… and potentially first job.

And more importantly, it’s a conversation starter. Everyone will comment. After all, you go to an all girls’ school where the conversation de jour centers on any particular girl’s personal accessory choice. Now I know you fear their judgment, but remember, most of your classmates have hearts and may even find it in their hearts to compliment you on your stunna shades.

Better yet, a boy who rides the bus with you and who you have a secret crush on, may compliment you and say something along the lines of, “You look super smart and classy in those new frames, Yaf.” Your eyes will probably light up, and in that moment you will learn two valuable life lessons: 1) You are indeed a heterosexual women and 2) Frames are your friends, not foes.

Yours truly,

An Established Caffeine Addict

Things you notice when you don’t have time to shower.

1) Homeless men feel a certain kinship to you. I refer to this as the “schmutz factor.” When you board a subway at say 5:45 in the morning, on route to take one of your kids to school, the bums who have spent the night on the train offer you their jackets as substitute pillows and blankets. In other words, they think you’re one of them. And when you reply, “Um, no thanks,” they respond, “You greasy, girl.”

2) Security guards inspect your photo identification more closely than usual– particularly security guards who stand outside Jewish day schools on the Upper West Side. Their reasoning is simple: if a terrorist is about to detonate himself, he probably isn’t too concerned about his personal hygiene.

3) Your boss limits all form of communication to email. Rather than invite herself into your office, she maintains the requisite 4 foot distance from you at all times. Also, when passing you in the hall, she acts as if you are stranger wandering the 8th floor aimlessly– a lost puppy dog, in need of some tender, love, and bathing.

4) The boy you’ve made plans to see over the weekend suddenly has an undiagnosed medical condition he must contend with… and must reschedule your little shindig indefinitely. After all, who knows how long it will take to diagnosis the mysterious disease?

5) Your roommates suddenly engage in urban emigration, fleeing your apartment for the comforts of suburban oases on Long Island and in Massachusetts, respectively. They claim they must visit friends they haven’t seen in ages (read: a week), but in actuality, it’s not about them– it’s totally about you.

Things I will never neglect to make time for: showers.

This blog entry is brought to you by the letter Dove.

Leaf Crunching Extravaganza.

The leaves are FINALLY changing colors.

In order to spice up the blog I’m beginning a new weekly feature: a round up of articles, items, and other material goods that I am currently crushing on. It’s also my chance to give you a quick summary of my weekend plans, which currently include brunching with Bostonians, West Village babysitting, screening “Meloncholia” at the Angelika, and attempting to blog about a subject on which I know virtually nothing: wine and cheese pairings. (Any suggestions regarding said pairings, which are not courtesy of Google, would be highly appreciated.)

Further proof that Jane Austen and I are sisters from another mister.

My perfect New Year’s Eve outerwear accessory.

I would definitely be “The Woman Obsessed With Her Career.”

The most delicious dish for my paralegal potluck next week.

A sultry polish, sure to attract (un)wanted male attention.

And for all my single ladies.

Happy leaf crunching!

Waiting for my poppyseed-bagel

Every heterosexual girl should have at least one entirely metrosexual male friend. I am fortunate to have one, who I refer to as the Conductor. His train, unfortunately for me, has chugged all the way to the Holy Land. But being that it is the 21st Century and all, we are still able to communicate on the regular.

In our latest exchange, I informed him I would be interviewing a Southern rapper for a piece I would be writing on hip hop and its role in modern day politics. And then I paused, letting him soak in the magnitude of that juicy tidbit. After that brief introduction, I changed the subject to something I really truly cared about– my perpetual bout of singledom.

His response– paraphrased– was as follows: Yaffa, do you want to be a relationship, or, is there someone specific you want to be a relationship with? It struck him that I had a meta-preference for a relationship, but no particular individual with whom to share said relationship. I was kind of like the girl at the edge of the bridge, watching her friends make the huge leap into the river below, and wondering if her friends jump off a bridge, should she join? My gut, it’s better to appear like a suicide case than to actually commit suicide. (Not that I’m comparing relationships to death, or anything).

I realized then that the Conductor had a point. Lord knows I’d been to my share of Doxy weddings over the last four years, and not once had I left thinking, “G-d, I wish I were the bride.” In fact, I tended to focus on the rather poor musical selections made for the bride and groom dance. Iyaz’s “Replay,” really? Elton John’s “Circle of Life,” seriously?

But I also knew that while I wasn’t looking for a wedding, I was searching for someone to show the slightest bit of affection towards me. However, the Conductor had an answer for that as well– a bagel analogy.

Being single, he said, is not like being in a bagel shop. You can’t buy the everything-bagel just because there’s no poppyseed-bagels out right now, and you don’t want to be standing there, hungry and without your daily dose of carbohydrates. You suck it up and work on being excellent and go to different bagel-shops so that when the baker gets the poppyseeds out of the oven “you’re on them like, well, like poppyseeds on a bagel.”

Moses, he’s good. He also happens to be right. I am at a point in my life when I can focus on living in the moment and being the best possible me I can be. And with a strong support system comprised of family, friends, and caffeine, I might actually be excellent someday. Hopefully, though, when that someday rolls around, I’ll also be chowing down on a delicious freshly baked poppyseed-bagel with lox and a schmear.

Wise beyond his years (and mine)

I knew the minute I met Alden that we would be best friends. I mean, what’s not to love about a blue-eyed, curly-haired blonde five year old boy with a heart of gold? And did I mention his wicked intelligence?

As a bit of an intellectual snob myself, I adore his defining characteristic: being wise beyond his years. Consequently, on our conversations uptown we often discuss subjects most twenty five year olds wouldn’t dare broach. For example, yesterday, while recounting my weekend of roommate birthday-related celebrations, Alden stopped and asked, “Have you ever considered in vitro fertilization?”

A bit shocked at his perfect pronunciation of a scientific term that I still struggle to say, I exclaimed, “Um, what?” Maintaining his usual calm, he explained that while I had celebrated my favorite financier’s birthday, he had celebrated his sperm donor’s birthday.

You see Alden is a textbook example of a petri dish baby. He doesn’t have a father and likely never will, but he grasps– at five– that storks don’t just drop children off at unsuspecting adults’ doors. There is a scientific mechanism driving the creation of babies, and he has an intimate insider understanding of this process.

He also is like a dog with a bone, and when I stared in complete silence, he repeated his question. “Yaffa, don’t feel bad if you never get married. My mommy didn’t, and she still had me. And you know what, that donor, he fathered another petri dish baby– a little girl– and she’s like a sister to me.”

“Well, Alden, she is technically your half sister; you share half the same DNA.”

“You mean deoxyribonucleic acid, don’t you?”

I responded that now he was just showing off, and well, he had already more than proven his intelligence. But I also knew he was searching for an answer, and so I told him that I would consider IVF if and when I found myself the proud owner of two furry filenes named Jack and Jill. However, in the interim I was still clinging onto the hope of finding a husband and doing it all natural.

It was at that moment that I realized I was discussing my non-existent sex life with a five year old boy, who though wise beyond his years, probably didn’t need to know about my future romantic liaisons. He apparently shared this sentiment and ended our conversation by stating, “Can we go to Starbucks now?” Seriously, best friend for life.

I need to get married.

And I don’t mean now, or even in the near future, but someday.  In preparation for that someday, I have begun choreographing my father-daughter dance. While such a dance is unheard of amongst Orthodox Jewry, I have been inspired by the following dynamic duo:

Now I know what you must be thinking. If dancing stereotypes have even a wee bit of accuracy, my father and I simply cannot compete. But, avid readers, father-daughter dances are not competitions. They are, however, an opportunity to surprise many unsuspecting guests. And if properly rehearsed, they have the potential to wind up on YouTube.

If we’re honest, what more could two semi-rhythmic family members hope for? Well in the case of my father and I, a whole lot more rhythm. While my father may envision himself a fourth  member of the Bee Gees (and photos of him taken in the 70s confirm this delusion), he was neither graced with their accents or their moves. And no amount of Saturday Night Fever viewings can change that reality.

But fortunately for Father Fredrick, his daughter does not have two left feet. And if she (being me) sets out to choreograph a memorable wedding diddy, he can and will master it. I recognize, though, that this may take a significant amount of time, and so in preparation for a wedding years-in-the-making, I have employed the 2′ x 4′ empty patch of floor in my bedroom to bust a few moves.

Of course, said patch of floor is conveniently located in front of a full-length mirror. And so I have been able to both smile and cry at my attempts at rhythmic movement. But as the late Aaliyah once said, “If at first you don’t succeed, pick yourself up and try again.” Did I mention this lyric has become my life motto?

But I must return to my choreography work. If you are still interested in listening to me babble– only this time about bare legs– head over to A-Line Fashion for your daily dose of autumnal styling.