I don't really have anything good to report...

... but I figured I'd write since it's been a few days.

The food coma of Thanksgiving has worn off, but I still have the general sluggishness of vacation. (I can hear you nay-sayers snickering, "aren't you on permanent vacation?" and "Oh yea, you needed a break from doing nothing all day." Well, I won't defend myself here with the "hey I work plenty" or "freelancing is hard!" So there.)

But the holiday was nice. I managed to eat my weight in turkey and apple pie, read two books cover to cover, get minimal exercise in the form of a walk by the ocean, play dominoes until my fingers calloused, stay indoors for an entire day - until about 10 p.m. when we drove to town to go to a bar. Good times, as always.

We also participated in what is known as the Yankee Swap, which I am sure my Southern readers - or really maybe all readers outside of the Northeast, or New Hampshire, or this one particular family who may have made it up for all I know - will not have heard of before. (And I find it funny that a bunch of Yankees are playing it, and it's still called Yankee Swap.) See, each person brings a gift - usually something they dug out of the closet, say, an old kite, already-read books, an old breadmaker; or sometimes strange and funny things, like a commando set complete with face paint, goggles and a camo hat, or a pencil box full of rocks, one labeled 'Spac Station.' (no kidding, that was an offering this year, typo and all). Each gift is wrapped - often in deceiving packaging - and placed in a pile.

Then each person draws a number from a hat, and starting from No. 1, each person picks a present and opens it. You can choose to keep it, or trade it for any gift opened before yours, and No. 1 gets the last pick after all are opened. So, perhaps you could say it's lucky to draw No. 1, and unlucky if you're No. 23... if you were even to use the concept of luck here.

Well, folks don't usually walk away with anything of value to their lives or others. Sometimes, you can snag something kitchy (like the leather crocodile doctor's bag I walked away with one year), something amusing (Mr. Potato Head was a hit this year) or something you can re-gift to someone outside of the family or rewrap for next year's swap (like the picnic backpack chock full of glasses, dishware and napkins, or the Assam - assman, to us - Teapot that will no doubt make some woman pleased this Christmas).

Let's see... This year, I wrapped a stack of books, some I had read and enjoyed, and one I didn't read and heard was crappy. And, after selecting No. 11 and losing the teapot in a trade, I walked away with a hardcover book called The Bird Watching Life Journal. Riiiight... I managed to leave it behind, as many family members sneakily do . (Picture, the host making sure each guest has left with his or her respective Yankee Swap gift, often wrestling it into reluctant hands or hiding it among washed out dishware or packed up leftovers.)

So goes the Yankee Swap. It's rowdy and fun, and once you understand the point, you won't get disappointed that you didn't walk away with something you'll use or that the three and a half minutes you had with that breadmaker, tea pot or Mr. Potato Head is really all that you were meant to have. That's how they do it in the Northeast.

insomnia

I used to enjoy sleep. It used to be easy, a no-brainer. Night would come, I'd be tired, I'd lay down and before I knew it, it was morning again. I guess I took it for granted, thinking it would always be there, dreams and all. I used to be able to fall asleep in any conditions, on any surface, with any background noise, save for maybe a screaming child or heavy construction.

Now, not so much. For the past several months... oh maybe a year... sleep has not been so easy. I am now a light sleeper, I wake up early regardless of what time I finally drift off, and I just don't enjoy it like I used to. In fact, I have become such a bad sleeper, that sometimes I dread it. It makes me a tinge nervous knowing I get my hopes up to enjoy the much-needed upcoming rest but that I will inevitably be disappointed.

The other night, I woke up at about 4 in the morning to a soft rustling, almost clicking, sound. I could have sworn it was the sound of someone typing, clack-clack-clacking away on a laptop. I look around, and as expected, there was no such person typing away on my computer. I wandered to the cracked window, thinking I would see my neighbor - whose window is uncomfortably close - pounding away on a keyboard perched close to their open window. As I leaned toward the window, I realized the sound was the rustling of my houseplant's leaves, blowing gently in the fan. Leaves. That's what woke me up.

So a couple nights ago, I went to sleep exhausted and woke up not two hours later to the sound of my BF snoring. (In his defense, snoring might be a strong word. He could have been just breathing, simply sustaining life, and it woke me up.) Five and a half hours later, I was still awake, crazed from exhaustion and frustration. I had read 150 pages of my book, listened to Gregory Isaacs in my headphones three times over, and even tried laying still and envisioning every muscle relaxing as they do in yoga class. At about 7:30 a.m., I finally fell asleep, but then woke automatically a couple hours later.

The next night, I went to sleep again, nervous but hopeful. A couple hours later, I woke up alone, only to discover said BF was sleeping on the floor in the next room. I saw him there and for one second, felt guilt and relief. Of course I felt extremely bad that he was sleeping on the floor, sacrificing his comfort to ensure there were very few distractions to wake me from my shallow slumber. But for a second I debated not waking him up, thinking how nice it would be to sleep in a near-silent warm room. My guilt won, and I nudged him, but he insisted he was comfortable and that I just go back to bed. I did. I slept fine, not great, still waking up every couple hours just for the hell of it.

I am not sure what it will take to regain the power over sleep. I've tried writing lists of the things that keep me up, playing music, exercising heavily that day so that I am dead tired. Nothing works. I am hoping it's a phase....

wining and dining

I went to meet two friends of mine from the global Paris seminar for dinner last night - we just started a tradition to meet every week or so in a new French restaurant, since our friendship grew from a love of Paris and of food. So when I get there, one friend was already seated and had ordered the wine.

Server: Can I get you something to drink, a glass of wine?

Me: Sure. (to friend) Hey, what are you drinking?

Friend 1: Bordeaux.

Me: Oh... hmmm... I'll just have a glass of Cabernet. Thank you.

Server (in painfully humorless you-must-be-an-idiot tone): Yep. That would be what she is having.

Me (wounded and a little mad): I apologize. I guess I know nothing about wine, and by your tone, that must have been a really stupid thing to say. I didn't realize Bordeaux and Cabernet were the same thing. Can you explain that to me?

Server (rambling, still humorless): Yes, something about grapes and regions and blends of this and that and yadda yadda yadda and clearly I don't really know what I am talking about but I like to make people feel stupid.

Right. The conversation went something like that. We ordered a bottle, and once she walked away I looked on the back label: 20 percent Cab, 70 percent Merlot and therefore 100 percent Bordeaux. Ok, friend, I may not fully understand, but I do know that 20 percent does not a Cabernet make. Maybe you could pass it off as a Merlot. I felt vindicated that I was not entirely wrong, and still annoyed at our crappy service. (But of course the exchange was fodder for laughs through the entire dinner: Thanks, I don't eat fish, so I'll have the grilled salmon for my entree. Or: No, thank you I don't like apples - I'll just have the apple tart for dessert.)

After dinner, I promptly called my BF, who actually does know a thing or two about wine and won't make you feel like an ass for not knowing, who explained to me that in fact, our server was a humorless ignoramous. See, allegedly French wine isn't like the wine we're used to (I personally prefer the Australian wines) - Merlot, Cabernet, Chardonnay - but in fact it's all blended. Chances are we won't get a 100 percent Cabernet, but a mix, and instead the server should have explained this and said something to the effect of, "The Bordeaux is a Cab-Merlot blend and will probably be the closest to what you are used to."

Well, the rest of the meal went well, although, as usual, we were the only table in the place laughing and having a good time. I thought we were going to have to take the pulse of the couple next to us. Sometimes I wonder why people go out to dinner if they are just going to sit there pouting, but then I also question why some people are servers, and make good money in a semi-swanky French spot, when they are really just jerks who barely cracks a smile. In the end, the manager was the only one who found us mildly refreshing, and in fact thanked us personally for coming and enjoying ourselves.

thoughts on Capote

I saw the movie Capote last night, and walked away wondering this:

Truman Capote threw out all notions of journalism ethics by infiltrating the town for information and becoming very close with the convicted killer, using him for the sake of the story. The result was In Cold Blood, arguably one of the best American books ever written and the advent of a new genre - the non fiction novel. But, does that make it OK? Do the ends justify the means?

Similar ethical issues exist today, perhaps to a different degree, with arguably different stakes. What's more, the journalism landscape is more aggressive and the public (and sources) more skeptical. But how much of that still happens, and how far should you go - or can you go without sacrificing your integrity - for the story?

half-Jew or whole?

Growing up, I never really questioned the legitimacy of my religion. I was raised Jewish, went to temple and Hebrew school and had a bat mitzvah. As a reform Jew, I understood that even though my mom was Catholic and my father Jewish, I was raised Jewish and therefore was Jewish. 100 percent Jew. Not half, not just sort of, but Jewish.

Now, I am finding some people don't think that's the case. Reform or not, the mother has to be Jewish for you to be, regardless of how many years I put it at the synagogue. Sure, I might have been bat mitzvah'ed but I don't go to temple now, I don't know all the funny Yiddish phrases and I often forget a holiday until I get a call from my father - so I must be a faker, a halvsie, a mere gentile. I met a Jewish woman last night wearing a shirt that said "Gefilte" with a picture of a fish under it. I got it, and I was immediately in, and she was ready to take me to all the Jewish volunteer events. But then I didn't get some obscure Jewish reference and I think I mentioned my mom was Catholic or that I was raised a Jew but am not practicing now (often my retorts when questioned on the veracity of Judaism claim), and I was out of the club just like that.

This seems to happen every once in a while. That and the look of shock and humor when I tell someone that I am a Jew from Alabama... "Wait, there are Jews in Alabama?!" I quip: "Yeah, I'm like one of three," which for the record is not true, as there was a substantial Jewish community in the 'Ham. But why bother? On the face of it, it may seem strange, but so does the idea of someone coming from Alabama, so what do I know?

So what makes a Jew? Growing up in the temple and being bat mitzvah'ed? Being born to a Jewish mother? Picking up on all the obscure Hebrew or Yiddish references tossed out at you like a test?

I guess I am just not sure where I fit in, and ultimately I have to figure it doesn't matter. For me, Judaism was a religion, not a culture, which I suppose precludes me from the joining the Real Jews Club. And after my bat mitzvah, I chose not to attend temple, participating only in holidays with my family. As I get older, I feel drawn back to it, but at the same time unsure of what extent (and a little overwhelmed by the clubbiness). If I just want to celebrate a few holidays or attend temple every once in a while, does that make me just a pretend Jew, a wannabe Chosen One, or is it a lost cause since I am allegedly only half Jewish and therefore don't really count to begin with?

*****

In a completely unrelated matter, I am embarking on something of a bathing experiment. See, after polling a few girlfriends (and even a few guy friends this summer in DC who owned up to their arguably girlie shower routines), I might be one of the only women who still uses just bar soap in the shower. No loofah, body wash, shave gel, face wash business. No clutter of dozens of bottles promising soft this and exfoliated that. Just shampoo and bar soap.

I grew up using Ivory, and never graduated to the scented scrubs and herbal washes of my fellow female (and male) bathers. It never bothered me, and in fact I delight in the low maintenance of a 4-minute shower. But now, I am curious.

I went to Walgreens this morning and dropped $20 on moisturizing body wash, shave gel, a loofah, lotion. The works. So for the next few days, I am going to trade in the bar soap for all the girlie business. I am not sure what I am expecting, or if I really even care, but it's certainly worth seeing what all the hype is about.

*****

And finally, it has once again been proven to me that I am terrible at trivia. Scratch that. I am mediocre at it. I went to a trivia game yesterday with some friends, and although my team (Team Smartification) was the funnest and by far the rowdiest, we were neither the winners (who banked the $200 pot) or the losers (who got free drinks from the bar). The team that won sat straight-faced in the corner, barely cracking a smile and looking generally bored and miserable. It turns out they are regular competitors, working the circuit of trivia games. They may have won, but they had zero fun.

Meanwhile, we came in a mediocre, average, unmemorable fourth. The group agreed that MC Ed's questions were ultra-obscure, but perhaps we were saying to make us feel smarter (or more smartified, as we said). To be sure, I did contribute at least one tough answer that flew over the other contestants' heads - What is the common name for H1N5? The bird flu.

Cleveland rocks!

I am never one to shy away from the chance for a completely random and pointless road trip, so when the idea of heading to Cleveland came up a week or so ago, I was in. See, my friend CK had been mulling over a job opening at the alternative weekly there, Scene, and had been emailing constantly with a former Mediller who is a staff writer there.

Apparently the interviewing process for the Scene is getting wasted with the editor, which I haven't decided is awesome or pathetic and slightly misguided. Jury's out. But to consider the job and whether she wanted to be at an alt weekly, CK thought it'd be fun to truck out there and hang out with the Sceners. And as usual, I am the willing partner in crime.

But as the debate between alt weekly and daily continues, CK wound up taking a job at a daily, the weekly position was filled internally and all that was open was an editorial assistant position, which they realistically call mail sorter. So perhaps our reasons for the trip were fizzling, but then you know, why not go to Cleveland? I've never been to Ohio or driven through Indiana, and I just did not feel complete.

Thursday morning, we get in the car for a day of endless driving, stopping only for what the rest stop restaurant called a panini - which was in fact, an open faced chicken sandwich with lettuce on a toasted bun - and an Us Weekly and People magazines, which I read outloud, assuming the requisite different voices to match the riveting storylines.

We roll into Cleveland and pick up a six-pack of Miller Lite for our gracious host. We worried for a minute if it was going to be weird, spending the evening with people we don't really know, certified only by the Medill seal of approval, but here we were, feeling a little crazy but ready for the adventure. And right away when we met the kids from the Scene, we realized it was going to be fun.

The editor was pretty much everything they described him as - a 45-year-old Irish Catholic father of five who can drink any weathered sailor under the table (but doesn't touch the stuff on the weekend - he is a family man after all, he explained). He drinks only Canadian beer and anything with whiskey in it. He slips in and out of an Irish accent tinged with hints of Minnesota intonation. He bossed his young reporters around ("Have some class, and get these ladies a beer!"). He struck me as a somewhat washed-up though likely talented writer, who his young staff wanted to revere as a wise Hunter S. Thompson type as he expounded the finer points of writing (more alt weekly v. daily) and living life to the fullest. I am not sure I quite saw him that way, but I won't discount the fun of meeting him.

The next morning, we headed to IHOP for an egg sandwich and a daytime glimpse of America's heartland, the salt of the Earth, the country's slight majority. It felt very Midwest, very American, through and through. Sure Cleveland's liberal, right?, but I couldn't help but look around and realize this was America. These were the people that elected our president and set the tone of the so-called values and priorities of our country. No judgment here, it was just new to me.

Then it was off to experience Cleveland, which took all of an hour. We drove through downtown (35 seconds), stopped for photos in a park overlooking Lake Eerie (12 minutes) and stopped by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, bypassing the $20 admission and hitting the gift shop for Cleveland magnets (26 minutes). The downtown area was beautiful and spanking clean, like it was built yesterday and sandblasted this morning for the tourists. We never really found the area of restaurants, bars, shops that we knew must exist somewhere for the 20- and 30-somethings, but I think our time there gave us a nice slice of a city in America's heartland.

it's my birthday

Last night for about three and a half hours, it was my birthday all over again.

A friend of mine who works at a swanky Chicago restaurant won a dinner for two at a similarly swanky spot. She chose me as her date, as I am a lover of food and dining and getting dressed up to go out. We went to Tru and told them it was my birthday, which I guess it kind of was.... just a little late. (For a second, it reminded me of the time she told the Karaoke DJ at Friar Tuck's that our names were Rose and Millicent and it was her birthday. Before we knew it, we were on stage and she was taking a Jagermeister shot out of the ass of a giant inflatable sheep ... but we didn't have to wait to sing our Karaoke song.)

Now, I have never eaten at a restaurant like this, and depending on who you're asking, Tru is ranked as the No. 1 (or No. 3) restaurant in Chicago. For the occasion, we went shopping at trusty, cheap, and always classy Forever XXI (yes, I know it's for 15-year-olds, but it's cheap and as long as I can still fit into the stuff, I'm gonna shop there), and got her a dress and me a shrug. Fancy.

We walk in the restaurant and are greeted by three men in suits, one with a thick French accent, there to take our coats and walk us to our table. The interior is decadent: plush blue velvet seats, tall ceilings, white walls spotted with art work - including an original Andy Warhol. I even got a tiny stool for my purse so it wouldn't have to rest on the floor.

We started with a glass of champagne, and I began to feel less and less like a total fraud sitting in a swanky four-star restaurant, knowing I can't pronounce half the stuff on the menu, wouldn't be able to choose the proper wine if my life depended on it and have no business spending any kind of substantial money on a meal. The place was stuffy, and every move was choreographed, down to the two servers simultaneously pouring water in our glasses. It was as quiet as a library, and the stiff-backed servers in their dark suits were constantly scanning the room, their eyes darting attentively. Although the formality of it made me a little uncomfortable at first, we eased into it, deciding it was still OK to laugh and enjoy ourselves, and even chat up the serving team (that's right, team - there must have been five guys waiting on us, and the fact that they treated us like queens helped relax me.)

We decided to do the chef's collection with wine pairing - nine tiny courses, each a surprise and different for the two of us. We started with the amuse-bouche - four bite-size treats, such as a mini-stack of potatoes and a shot of melon water. From there, we had the caviar staircase, which was gorgeously displayed on a glass tiered tray. I can't say I have really done caviar before, and this was perfect.

Now on to a couple fish courses - seared tuna and a crab salad - followed by a foie gras in chocolate sauce and lobster risotto with black truffle. Next up were two soups in capuchin cups, then halibut and hamachi, then lamb and beef rossini..... phew I am exhausted just recounting it all. These courses were followed by the cheese course, where we chose three from a massive cheese table the server wheeled over to us. After a shot of blackberry-passion soup, it was desert time - the course that seemed to never end, from the two desert plates to the table of tiny chocolate truffles and cookies to the silver of specialty chocolates.

None of my retelling do the food justice. It can't. Sure, I called the "Elysian Fields Lamb Loin and Chop, Roasted Cipollini Onions, Couscous, Pine Nuts, Lamb Jus paired with the Rockblock Syrah from Del Rio Vineyard" just "lamb," but if I detailed it how they did, my guess is your eyes would glaze over at the pages and pages of text here. But each course was rich and unique and exciting. There were flavors I have never had before, expertly prepared, each piece of the dish complementing the next. I don't think I could pick a favorite dish - or even a favorite course.

The marathon meal came to a whopping $450, not including the tip. Before dining there, I always said it was stupid to spend that kind of money on food, and I still contend that there are more urgent needs in the world for such funds - if not my rent money then the charity of your choice. That said, having the opportunity to live like someone who could afford such a meal for one night was a treat, and would be worth saving up to celebrate a special occasion. I didn't pay for it, so I am not having to assess if it was "worth it," but it certainly made me want to budget for another meal like that some day in the distant future, and for last night, it was the meal to top all meals. And I got to keep the menu, complete with a "Happy Birthday Sara!" on the top.

don't judge

I love the Ellen DeGeneres show.

I think Ellen is hysterical. Her timing is perfect, her facial expressions are priceless and her strange segments are mindlessly enjoyable. I find myself laughing out loud at her show all the time.

I plan to write her a letter expressing my love for her show and how I think she would have a blast hanging out with me and my friends having dance parties (that's how she starts every show - amazing) and laughing non-stop. Maybe she'll give me a free trip to the Bahamas or fly me to LA for a taping and let me come on stage as her co-host.

Don't judge me until you've watched it.

the fate of this blog ...

... has been under question for some time. I think I only have about two readers and I find myself recycling stories to those few who do read it (which is exactly why one of my best friends said she wouldn't read it). So I have had to chose my blog topics carefully, especially considering I am not dodging bullets in Caracas, and I often think it's just not worth it.

Then I said today, to hell with all that madness. So I am here to write some total crap that maybe one or two people might read, finding little need to comment on it, and then we can all just move on with our lives.

I have re-entered a phase of body image obsession. It's been a while, but my tendency to overthink my weight, what I eat and how much I exercise has crept back up. See, I like to think I am the kind of girl who can eat burgers and shwill beers like any dude, with little care of calories. And to a certain degree I am, but never far from the surface is the girl who used to be chubby and is horrified of being fat when she's older.

I once had a friend tell me it's stupid to watch what you eat and if you feel like you're gaining weight, just go for a run. That's easy for you to say, at maybe 115 pounds soppng wet with boots on. But the reality is I watched my mom struggle, which I want to avoid, and I too fall into the trap of believing thin is beautiful. (For the record, I am talking 5, 10, 20 pounds here, not obesity, which is a whole different issue and evokes completely different responses from me.)

When I went to Prague, I quit caring about all that and let myself eat whatever I wanted and drink enough beer to sate a sailor. I would bet the weight gain is barely noticeable, but it's brought me back to borderline obsession of counting calories, working out every day and feeling eater's remorse after an egg and bacon sandwich at Clark's.

For all that personal, self-reflective garbage I've dumped here, I'll throw in something a little more light-hearted. I went to a bar the other night that has a small dance floor and amazing dance-party music. On one side of the dance floor, these two guys had set up something like a you-got-served circle, but they were swinging their arms like they were manning two jump ropes. And people would take a running start and jump in between them to demonstrate their best moves. When someone would ignore the imaginary ropes and walk right between them, they would pause, look annoyed and lean down to slowly, in unison, pick up the ropes from the floor. It was awesome. Just as I mustered the courage to jump in, the song was over and they didn't pick pick up the ropes again. Probably for the better.