Serendipity...?

I must have walked past the outdoor Strand Books on Fifth Avenue at the Central Park entrance hundreds of times. But I never stop. Not until tonight at least.

It's a perfect summer night: mid-70's, low humidity. As I'm leaving the park, the sun has fallen behind the Central Park trees and if I were further into the park, I might see a firefly or two.

I see a sign to the effect of half off used books at the Strand stand and am intrigued. I finished a book weeks ago and lately have just been reading the news. As much as I love reading about Obama's healthcare plan and the Fatah conference, I could use a little fictionalized escape. I settle on two: Salman Rushdie's Fury and Ernest Hemingway's The Garden of Eden.

Now the Rushdie book's price is listed on the back in Pounds. I'm not sure I've ever seen this before. Usually the price of the books I peruse are listed separately in US and Canadian Dollars. So clearly it is a book that was originally sold in the UK, which seemed a bit odd to me. Before I could give it much thought, I make my purchase and head down to the subway to catch the N train home.

I begin reading on the train and next thing I know, I'm two chapters in and at my stop. I stuff my receipt just before chapter 2 and meander onto the platform to exit the station.

A few hours and several evening activities later, I settle onto my couch to continue reading. I'm mid-chapter 2 and shift the position of the book ever so slightly and out slides a small piece of paper from inside the book.

Puzzled, I hold up a London Underground 1 Day Travelcard from August 16, 2003. Huh?

I am so intrigued at this moment.

Whose ticket is this? I suddenly realize someone else owned and read this book. Well, duh, of course, it's used. But, now I have actual evidence. And they read it on "the tube."

What in the world does this ticket mean? Who does it belong to? As someone who tends to overthink things, I immediately wonder what I was doing on this date and its relation to me. Not wanting to lose my place in the story, I finish the chapter. Next I follow to peel through an old journal of mine. Rats, I started writing in it in November 2003. Next I realize I went to my first John Mayer concert in August 2003. I dig out the t-shirt I bought from the concert to look at the list of cities visited with the corresponding date. Rats, that was August 18, 2003. So what was I doing? Thinking perhaps a little historical context might help to remember, I google, "August 16 2003." I learn it is a Saturday. That was the day that power was restored in the blackout that struck the northeast for three days; but while the power went out in Niskayuna, where I now recall I was at the time, the power had gone back on Friday in Nisky. I don't think I was doing anything more than being a lazy bum that day. It was summer and I had finished an internship and a summer math class not too long before this, if my memory serves me right. Hmm. Perhaps I'll have to simply accept its connection to me isn't apparent for now.

And so, I have decided that once I finish reading the book, I will put a used up Metrocard inside, with the London Underground pass, and sell the book in a foreign city. Where should I go?

Surrey with a fringe on top ... in front of Ira

to set the scene...

It is a chilly spring afternoon, about 1:00 PM, and it is raining. It's that point of suspension when it's not really raining hard enough to need an umbrella, but raining just enough that the drops are frequent enough to want one.

I'm walking with a purpose near Cooper Square, on my way to the Astor Place subway stop to head Uptown to meet friends for a birthday brunch. John Mayer's "Bigger than my Body" plays at about half volume on my iPod. I stop somewhere in Cooper Square, obeying the solid orange hand commanding me to wait for the light to change before I cross the street and head down the subway steps.

I am lost in the dreary afternoon, possibly sleeping with my eyes open, until I slowly pan left and see a guy in front of me. I pan a little more left, still slowly, and see a familiar, yet forgetten face. As guitar continues to play in the background that is my iPod, I realize in slow motion that I recognize this person and reach into my left coat pocket and pause the music. Moments before the pause,

"Hey, what's up?"

Enter, the ex-boyfriend.

(And for the purposes of this blog, I will refer to him as, the "ex-boyfriend.")

We exchange pleasantries. Long time no see. How's it going? Are you still in Astoria? Where are you headed?

Through all of this, I suddenly realize that the walk signal must have come on and I missed it, because now the hand is flashing orange.

Realizing that we are both headed onto the same Uptown train, I offer, "You want to cross?"

He responds, "Yea."

So I begin walking and sense he is not following. Phew, that was a quick chance encounter and now it's over. (Well, wrong.) I cross the street andwalk down the subway steps by myself, headed for the Uptown 6, swipe my metrocard and walk right about 15 feet down the platform.

Not even 15 seconds later, I hear behind me,

"So, in a city of 9 million people we still run into each other?"

It's not over? I laughed, politely, and started up again that same conversation we had somehow begun above ground a few minutes before.

Awkward, but cordial, we catch up on the year plus of our lives. Vague details of his I did not care to hear. And vague details of mine that can be uncovered by reading my Facebook page. The train came, we sat down on the same blue bench.

Oh dear Lord, I thought, Astor Place to 96th Street. This is going to be one long subway ride.

The train moved and with each stop, I thought, make it go faster. Eventually and finally we arrived at 96th Street and parted ways before the turnstiles. I was using the Southwest exit and he... one of the East exits.

Awkward hug.

"Maybe we'll run into each other again?" He offered, probably lying.

"Yea," I returned with a polite smile. "Bye."

I walked away.

Do you remember that scene in "When Harry Met Sally," when Harry and Sally are in Sharper Image trying to find a housewarming gift for Jess and Marie and they happen upon the karaoke machine?

They are singing "The Surrey with a Fringe on Top" from the musical, "Oklahoma," and Harry stops like a deer in headlights, when he spots his ex-Wife with her new beau, Ira. While my situation was slightly different, it is those chance encounters that seem sometimes to be so quintessentially New York, but in reality are bound to happen in life, at moments when we are lost in, well, a moment. And when it is least expected.

What's in a name?

Elizabeth is my given name; my legal name. It is the name on my birth certificate and the name that people called me until I was old enough to correct them. Well, sort of.

I remember playing at my friend Sarah’s house and when I was around five years old. Sarah called me Liz and I quickly scolded her.

“Only some people can call me Liz.”

I meant only my friends can call me Liz.

It wasn’t long thereafter that everyone was calling me Liz, at my insistence. I ditched Elizabeth for practical purposes and only my grandma was calling me Elizabeth. (She eventually got the memo when I was a teenager after I didn’t have the heart to correct her all those years.)

When Elizabeth was used, it was when I was in trouble and my middle name, Miriam, usually followed behind. Although since I was such a well-behaved child, the combination barely reared its head. I resented my name for being old (Queen Elizabeth), really ridiculously long to spell and say, and well, for just being my name. Doesn’t everyone hate their name at some point?

As for its age, to the average person, Elizabeth is old and historic. It is one of those names that carries a regal stature and never seems to go out of style, regardless of the weird names babies are given every day. But it’s even older than you might think. It doesn’t originate in England or with someone known for being a virgin (and a queen).

When I was in college, a roommate of mine who looked down on me for being less religiously observant than her once lamented,
“Elizabeth Foreman. That sounds like such a waspy name.”

What? Yea, ‘cause Foreman is so waspy, I thought. Please note I don’t like to use or perpetuate the phrase “WASP,” which stands for White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. There’s nothing wrong with being in that category, but rather the connotation in which the term is often used is what is offensive.
I responded, “What? It’s not waspy at all. What are you talking about?
“Actually, Elizabeth comes from the Bible,” I continued.

Ha! I beat the yeshiva girl at her own game.

If you look up Elizabeth in any name book or frankly Google Elizabeth, it will read as meaning something to the effect of being “consecrated from God” and Hebrew in origin. Elisheva – Exodus 6:23. Elisheva was Aaron’s wife and consequently, sister-in law to Moses and Miriam. And Miriam is my middle name! Jewish royalty! Sort of.

When Mom and Dad named me, they toiled with an S instead of a Z, but legend has it that Dad thought people would spell it wrong so they stuck with the traditional Z. EliZabeth. And Mom insists I am not named after anyone, well my first name at least.

I still cannot avoid my abnormally long name for legal purposes. On standardized tests in school, I was inevitably Elizabet, because it would only accept 8 letters. Poor h was always cut off. I unconsciously hoped year after year that the upcoming test would leave space for 9 letters. Nope. Never. Somewhere in some drawer in New York State there are a lot of newsprint tests with No. 2 pencil marks bearing the name Elizabet Foreman. Or maybe in a lot of drawers. Or maybe they’ve been shreaded. I hope the latter.

And one day it became Liz, at least in every day practice. I still grapple with how I should be referred to professionally, but usually default to Liz. Those who slip in an Elizabeth every now-and-then at work give me anxiety (again, the whole being in trouble thing) and show a lack of attention to detail. But I’ll let it slide, because after-all, only my friends call me Liz.

The following are variations of my name, which I have been called. I’ll allow these for those who are stuck somewhere between Elizabeth and Liz.

Lizbip – my brother
Liza (read Leeza) – Greek neighbor
Aliza (read Aleeza) – Israelis, to whom lamed-yud-zion does not make sense
Eli (read Ellie) – unnamed co-worker
Htebazile – college roommates

I heart NY

I was 12. I was 12 when I fell in love with New York City. It was February and I was visiting my Great Aunt Pat in Chelsea with my mom. At the golden, yet awkward, age of 12 I was - you guessed it - in town shopping for Bar and Bat Mitzvah dresses to be prepared for many a Shabbat of the simchas of my peers, plus my own. It was an unseasonably warm February day and the tulip stems had begun to peak through the bed of dirt outside Aunt Pat's apartment building. Maybe the smell of spring caught me. Maybe it was the endless shopping. Maybe it was the hustle and bustle. Whatever it was, I fell in love with New York and vowed to return.

Fast-forward ten years to New Jersey. I was finishing up my final semester at Rutgers University and commuting two days a week into Manhattan for an unpaid internship. I would wake up at 6:00 AM, hustle in my heels, sometimes through freshly fallen snow on Stone Street and Easton Ave., down to the New Brunswick train station, and an hour and a half later, I would arrive on the 36th floor of 350 Fifth Avenue. (You should Google 350 Fifth Avenue. OK, OK. It's the Empire State Building.) I was impressed by the revolving doors and excited that I could sneer at the tourists and be the cool one who was going inside. The truth is there was nothing glamorous about the entire experience, except that it was an experience. Whenever I smell burnt rubber I automatically associate it with New Jersey Transit train I would inhabit for two plus hours each day. I was also working in a gritty part of New York. The Fashion District isn't exactly a part of New York to be proud of. It's dirty, smelly, overcrowded, full of annoying tourists, but I kind of love it. Okay, I have a love/hate relationship with the Fashion District.

The goal with the internship was to land a job. April arrived and I had no job. I was graduating on May 18 and I gave myself one option: New York City. Oh, yea, a job and New York City. I applied and applied. Suddenly I found a friend who also wanted to move to New York. And she had a friend who was also in New York and wanted to move. And then suddenly one day we all met up and looked at apartments. We talked about living in Manhattan. But "talked about" was as far as it got. We walked around Park Slope. And somehow we meandered our way to Astoria on the G train. (This was my first and last experience with G train!!) We called a landlord for a place we found on Craig's List. It was a dream apartment. But, you can't sign at the first place you see, no? We looked somewhere else and realized this was a steal. A few days later, we were sealed. I signed the lease without a job.

A few days later, I got a job offer, which I accepted. And on May 18 I graduated. And on May 19 I moved into my apartment on 30th Ave. in Astoria. This coming Friday, I will move out of this very apartment and into my own place sans roommates. After nearly three years in the most wonderful city in the world, I have discovered more reasons why I love New York and many reasons that I never would have known had I lived in Manhattan all this time. Allow me to share...

• When the TV is off, I can often hear the brakes of the subway car and the next stop announcement for "Broadway" on a Manhattan-bound train from inside my apartment. Love it...
• The smelly fresh fish market across the street from the storefront with dead chickens hanging from the window display, down the street from Zagat-rated Ovelia.
• Hearing at least four different languages on my street at any given time.
• The view of the Manhattan skyline at night after the turn following Queensboro Plaza. Nothing beats a view of the lit-up Empire State Building and Chrysler Building.
• In the morning sunlight, right before the 7 train turns into Hunters Point. The multi-color graffiti in Long Island City, PS1 and the midtown Manhattan skyline in background. Sprinkle in a few Long Island City high rises to ruin the Manhattan view.
• Getting body-slammed nearly every morning transferring from the N train at Queensboro Plaza. The people who ride the 7 train are tough and forget that in order to get on the train, others need to get off first.
• Noticing a sharp demographic shift when leaving the N train and boarding the 7.

A Culture of Debt

Fighting the cold on a blustery March morning, I walked into my bank on Third Avenue. I was greeted by a bank employee. Once she found out the reason for my visit, we went to her desk. While processing my request, she noticed on my account that I have been pre-approved for a credit card that the bank offers.

This bank tells me literally every time I make a transaction, whether with a teller or at the ATM, that I have been pre-approved for this very credit card. I always say “no, thanks.” I already have a credit card with this bank and I have no desire for another card. I pay my bill in full every month, so what would be the purpose of another bill to pay, another thing to keep track of, something else to worry about in an already busy and pressing world?

Realistically for me, the only impetus to open a new account would be to close my previous account. The card being offered has slightly different features than my current card, offering a larger amount of points on purchases that I make frequently, while my current card offers just one point per dollar spent. More points would equal more gift cards I can select from or a larger amount of cash back, at the end of the day. I told her it sounds enticing, but that I am preparing to move in the coming weeks and could not spare the hassle of canceling one account and opening another at this time. I would consider it in a few months.

The bank employee countered that there would be no harm in opening an additional credit card.

“Do you shop on the net?” She asked.

“Yes,” I responded. Who doesn’t?

“Well most people have a separate credit card for purchases on the net, so if there are ever any problems with the card, they know it comes from the net.”

I have never met anyone who has admitted to having a separate credit card for online purchases. Anyone who pays attention to their credit card statement should not need to have a separate card to check for fraudulent purchases. That is perhaps one of the stupidest justifications for having an additional card I have heard.

She then added that another additional card is helpful to prevent overdraft of another account.

“I don’t overdraft,” I quickly asserted. “And I have good credit and want to keep it that way. I have no reason for having an additional credit card.”

“Well, actually, you can have up to seven credit cards before it is bad for your credit,” she responded.

Seven. 7.

As shocking as the number seven is, I had heard this before. There must be some validity to this statement. For someone single with few expenses like me, there is no reason whatsoever to have so many credit cards.

It was at this moment that a man came over to the cubicle and introduced himself as one of the bank managers. He had heard the tale end of the “seven credit card” thing and reinforced that it is in fact good to have several credit card accounts open. Up to seven. He boasted that it is good for your credit.

“I have excellent credit. It doesn’t make sense to me why I should take on the responsibility of paying and keeping track of another bill when I simply do not need it. To me, this seems like this culture is the reason why we are in such a financial mess right now.”

I don’t pretend to be an economist and openly admit I am often miffed by some of the things going down (literally) in both the US economy and in the world; however, I understand the basics. Homeowners and potential homeowners were offered irresponsible loans by a variety of parties interceding for the banks, which ultimately supplied this money. Other firms “bet” on these loans and on the firms backing these loans, homeowners were unable to pay and it spun out of control. However you would like to characterize this as spiraling up, trickling down or simply causing a chain-reaction, our economy is in trouble stemming from irresponsible loans. Debt.

At some point the money had to run out. And while I have a lot of issues with bailouts, stimulus packages, tax relief, etc., etc., etc., I am not taking issue with that here.

The American culture has a serious problem with promoting debt. We are working hard to find recovery for large American companies that are serious trouble, but we have no plan in place to reinforce the culture of debt.

Banks earn their money off of loan and credit card fees and interest rates and yes, this is their business. Their bread and butter. But I have a credit card already. Should it be continually pushed in my face? Shouldn’t I be rewarded for being responsible?

The bank manager and I delved into a conversation about the financial crisis and who was at fault. I told him that consumers should not be lead onto a path where they have to pay off several credit cards. I reasserted that this culture of debt is the reason why banks are in trouble.

“Not this bank,” he told me, following to list four other banks that landed on their feet despite what has transpired the last few months.

“Right now I am fortunate to have no debt. I have few expenses: I don’t own a car, I don’t own a house. I pay my bills completely every month. But one day, I will buy a car, I will buy a house and I will go to graduate school and I will need loans for all of those things. And now, because of other people’s irresponsibilities, it will be even more difficult for me to get a reasonable loan. Even though I am responsible and pay off my purchases when they are due, I will pay the price. And that is not fair.”

Fortunately by this point I received a receipt for my transaction and it was time to leave. We shook hands and off I went.


Fixing the current economic crisis in the manner in which they are doing it will only result in the treatment of the symptoms of the problem. If on this day in March I am still told I can open seven credit card accounts without problem, we did not learn the lessons of the last few months. In the long-term, we need to target the root cause. We are in a culture of debt, and the lenders encourage dishonesty.

The Jewish Straightening Method

The Japanese-

The Brazilian-
(no not that kind of Brazilian...)

The Jewish-

?

Since the beginning of January, I have been straightening my hair. Many people have asked me how I straighten it, attempting to prompt me to respond that it has been chemically straightened. No, I have not used some nationality's commercial straightening method. I have heard good things about the Japanese straightening method and the newer Brazilian. Since seeing how silky smooth my hair is just from a flat iron (secret's out, ladies!), I looked into the Brazilian. It is much less expensive than the Japanese and tends to have a better track record. However, a lot of websites warn the chemical used to straighten the hair may also contain carcinogens. As much as I love my hair, no product is worth that risk.

That being said, I've decided that I live in a world of many opportunities and possibilities. Why should I (semi-) permanently straighten my hair when I can just have The Jewish Straightening Method?

A girl needs options. And frankly, I like having them.

I am often asked how my curls work (when I wear them) and now that I am getting the question daily about whether my hair is permanently straightened, I have decided to let my secrets to The Jewish Straightening Method out of the bag. Well, most of them.

Before I fess up, let me first put this disclaimer: There is nothing inherently Jewish about the way in which I style my hair. Jews have curly, straight, wavy, frizzy hair and some Jews have thin hair, some have thick. Some even have no hair (God forbid). While there is a stereotype that Jews have thick, curly hair (hence the term, "Jew-fro" and many others I don't use), not all fall into this category. I have simply reached a place in my life where I finally know how to appease this mangled mess of hair my genetic code has passed along to me. Whether "Jewish" or not, I finally love my hair.

Please allow me to share this love.

The Jewish Straightening Method:

1) Find an amazing hair stylist.

If you have curly hair, you do not need to go to a fancy curly hair salon like Devachan (http://www.devachansalon.com/) or Ouidad (http://www.ouidad.com/) in NYC. I was once nearly brainwashed and told that I needed to embrace my hair. I made an appointment at Devachan and upon confirmation I was told that even though my stylist was new, that it would cost $145 and I was expected to pay this upon receipt of service. I knew that would make me buy all their products, possibly swear to worship them forever, which would cost more money. I quickly informed them I would be cancelling my appointment.

I did, however, listen to what my co-worker said about how she styled her hair, the one who had referred me to Devachan.

Many months and many bad haircuts later, I took a chance on a new hair salon in my neighborhood. I made an appointment at Saloon (http://www.saloonhaircolor.com/) with Joe. Within five seconds of taking a look at my hair, Joe knew exactly how to cut my hair. Layered and texturized, I left a happy girl.

A good hair cut isn't the be-all, end-all, though. You have to do your part.

2) Know the curly process

My co-worker, who went to Devachan, told me that following her shower (where she does not rinse out her conditioner), she takes strands of her hair and twirls them into curls. Banking on this whole "not rinsing out conditioner" thing, I was baffled at how a girl could not rinse the conditioner out. Just sounds gross. So I continued to shampoo and condition, but I added leave-in conditioner once I was out of the shower.

Zing!

Nexxus Headress Weightless Leave-in Conditioner. It is $20 a bottle, but you only need a small quarter-sized amount each time. I have a lot of hair and the bottle lasts more than six months.

Pantene Pro-V Products

I have, for years, used Pantene products. Since I am adding mousse (I'll get to that) and thus drying out the hair with product in addition to the natural elements, I started using Pantene's Pro-V Restoratives Time Renewal shampoo, in addition to the same type of conditioner. While it's meant to restore damaged hair in a month, I use it year-round. When I go cheap and don't use it for a while, my hair isn't as perky.

After the shampoo, the conditioner and finally the leave-in conditioner, I scrunch my hair and apply mousse: Pantene Pro-V Classic Styling Mousse. I have used the mousse for curly hair, but find the curling mousse makes my hair more frizzy than the others (I have also found that the pantene shampoos and conditioners for "smooth and silky" hair tend to give me a fuller curl than the ones for "curly" hair).

Once the mousse is in, I take strands of hair and made Shirley-temple style curls. I let it dry naturally and never expose the curls to a hair dryer. Frizzy curls are not happy curls!

3) The Straightening Method

I owe it all to Maxi-glide. The other nuances and techniques simply would flop if it were not for this amazing flat-iron.

http://www.maxiusbeauty.com/

Another co-worker, who happens to be African-American, told me about this one. When she told me about all the chemicals and products she's used through the years and saw how absolutely gorgeous her hair was, I simply had to have the maxi glide. I wash my hair with Pantene Pro-V restorative shampoo and conditioner. After the shower, I put on Nexxus leave-in conditioner. I either allow it to dry naturally (but who has the time?) or blow dry it.

Then I allow the Maxi Glide to do its magic. The Maxi Glide has one side of the flat-iron where steams come out of in order to straighten the hair. The other side has small "teeth" like a small comb that smooths the hair. There is also a button on the straightener where you can make steam come out (for ends and unruly frizzy sections). There is a specific technique to using a flat-iron that you can't explain in a blog, but check out the user manual before you buy it and use good mirrors. The maxi glide gets hot and if you're not careful, you can burn yourself easily.

It takes me at least an hour. Keep in mind I have a lot of hair!

I would not say it's easy by any stroke of the imagination, but gives a beautiful straightening job, without the salon expense. I never washed my hair every day (she needs a break every once and a while) and when I straighten it, I usually wait 3, 4 and sometimes 5 days before straightening it again. It's important to be kind to your hair, regardless of how thick it is (and mine is thick).

In reading about the Brazilian straightening method, I learned that it straightens by way of Keratin proteins and a lot of steam straightening. Nexxus leave-in conditioner contains Keratin proteins. And the Maxi Glide lets off steam!

The Jewish Straightening Method gives you options.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5y9A4DKmjM

Reality Check: Is it better to look older, younger or your actual age?

On this 22 of February, my half birthday, I am left to ponder: is it better to look older, younger or my actual age? In six months, I will be 25, which is an age I am not looking forward to being.

I remember being six and for the first time in my life possessing the awareness that in ten years I would be sixteen. "Wow," I thought. "Sixteen" And at seven, I was amazed at the prospects of seventeen, and at eight, eighteen. As the years passed, I revelled in my years, but still yearned to be older. To reach that point. 25 could possibly be the first year I'd like to go backward. I am aware that I am shorter than your average 24 and a half year old. I also have a very fair skintone and don't wear much more make-up than is necessary. I go for the natural appearance. And in a city like New York, that is not of the norm. That being said, let me share a few tales all occuring since my twenty fourth birthday:

September: It's a typical fall Saturday night out at the movies with friends. I get to the ticket counter. We're seeing a Rated-R movie. "One for Towelhead, please."

There is a pause in this exchange.

"How old are you?" the clerk asks.

I open my mouth and no words come out. I swollow those non-existant words.

I chuckle, "I'm 24. I just turned 24! Would you like to see my ID?"

The clerk declines and reassures that I look young because I'm not wearing a button-down shirt. Weird. I guess that makes me look 16? A new low, so to speak.

Sometime in the Fall:
I'm sitting at my cubicle at work. The clock has passed 5:00 PM and most people have left for the day. Another co-worker hears that I am still in the office and comes over to chat. I tell the above story, at which point, he asks, "How old are you?"

Like I'm going to tell!

I retort, "How old do you think I am?"

"25."

Yes!!! I seem older! Although, in the working world, 25 is still young.

December:

I'm riding in a cab in Jerusalem after a long day as a tourist. My friendly cab driver has just uncovered that I'm only in town for a short period of time and is disappointed at me.

“Why are you only here for two weeks? You are young. You should be learning here for a year.”

“No, no. I have a job I have to get back to unfortunately.”

“But you are young. How old are you?”

"How old do you think I am?”

I chuckled, knowing he would be off-base.“Eh… 17, 18.”

“Hahahahahahaha. No, older.”

He guessed 20.

And then I informed him that I am 24.

“But you have a baby face! This is a good thing for when you get older.”

Is it?

February:

I have time to kill after work one evening before meeting my brother for pizza. I wander over to Lord & Taylor on Fifth Avenue in the hopes of finding a new purse (on sale). I find nothing in my confines. Next to the purses are the make-up counters.

One of the Clinique ladies catches my attention. She tries to sell me on superdefense, which is an age-defying moisturizer. I tell her I used to use it, until Clinique changed the formula and the new product literally burned my face.

Even though the cab driver in Jerusalem told me I had a baby face and the clerk at the movie theater thought I was 16, a salesman still managed to sell me superdefense probably over a year ago. At 23 and a half. I was at Macy's that day to fulfill a Clinique bonus, and even though I told him I did not need to regenerate any cells since I look like a child already, he told me it would help when I'm older. So, I spent $39 on a container of cream because it would help when I'm older. And I proceeded to rebuy that container of cream every 6 weeks thereafter until Clinique reformulated it and my skin felt aflame (don't worry, I returned it and got my $39 back).

So, back to Lord & Taylor's. Somehow the saleswoman convinced me to sit in the chair and try out a few products. While removing my current make-up, applying all sorts of fun products, I lamented that maybe I needed something to make me look a shade older. I shared the movie-theater story.

"Well, you do look young."

"How old do you think I am?" I asked.

"Now that you've told me that story, I know you're a little older than I originally thought." She shared.

Oh, no. She probably thought I was 16...

"I would say you're about 20."

Sarcastic laughing follows.



I spent a good chunk of my childhood longing to be older. I get to the beginning of that "being older" stuff and I spend money on some cream that is supposed to prevent the appearance of aging. But on a professional level, to appear older is the goal. My face is stuck in its teens, unfortunately.

So, is it better to look older, younger or your actual age?

Oh, Astoria...

Ask me why I live in Astoria.

Go on, ask.

OK, since you've asked.

It's cheap. It's cheap, it's convenient, it's safe, it's easy to get to, and well, it's cheap. Did I mention it's cheap?

When I spent my childhood and most of my teen and college years daydreaming about someday living in THE city, I never imagined I would live in Queens. My career choice, the outrageous cost of this city and my personal desire to put money into my savings account landed me in Astoria. And nearly two years later I'm still here.

I'd be lying if I told you economics is not what has kept me here, but still, there is something magical about this neighborhood. And something even more magical about the diversity of this borough. The most diverse county in America.

Last Saturday I left my apartment with 2 tasks set out to be accomplished: eat lunch and go to Rite Aid. It was a warm afternoon and the sun was shining, so I diverted part of my plan for the park. I grabbed a bagel and sat in the concrete-filled park around the corner from my apartment, "Athens Square."

Half of the park is filled with basketball courts and the other half is an homage to Greece, in the eyes of an ignorant outsider, like myself. The center of this half is built with a mini ampitheater with Parthenon-like pillars outlining the curve. A statue of Socrates stands next to the Parthenon pillars. Astoria is known as a Greek neighborhood, but it's ever-changing.

As I lose myself in a daydream and a fluffy bagel, I hear, "Excuse me, Miss, what time is it?"

"3:05"

A question from a group of Hispanic boys playing soccer in the center of the ampitheater. They call out plays in Spanish and narrowly miss hitting the other children running around the ampitheater.

Another conversation begins on the bench next to me. An outrageously loud conversation. A man speaks in Arabic on his ear piece.

The neighborhood Greek men convene at a chess table behind me. Mid-game there is some argument. Or perhaps a passionate discussion.

I finish my bagel, take a deep breath and wonder.

Where else in the world could I hear Spanish, Arabic and Greek being spoken simultaneously? Would this happen in Manhattan? Regardless it does happen in THE city, just maybe not in the location of my original daydream.

Maybe I am Italian

"Are you Italian?" a random 40-something on the subway blurts in my direction.

"Oh, geez, not again." I think. I'm about as stereotypically Jewish as it gets, but I get the Italian question a lot. What is it about me? My dark features? My pasty white skin? My high cheek bones? Other features...?

Is this an appropriate question to ask?

When is it appropriate to ask a total stranger his or her nationality? You wouldn't ask your random Jose on the subway if he prayed with a rosary or if he fasted during daylight for a month or if he avoided animal products, right? You wouldn't flat-out say, are you a Buddhist? The crazy proselytizers handing out Jesus flyers aside, religion, ethnicity, nationality are all very private and personal matters in this country, no?

I'm not saying I get offended when someone asks me if I am Italian. I take it as a compliment. I love Italian culture, art, jewelry, food, and the people, but, honestly?

To the contrary, I usually engage in conversation and offer where my grandparents and great-grandparents came from: Poland, Austria, Lithuania, Russia, Romania. Pale of Settlement Eastern Europe. Places I am the least bit proud of and feel no connection to whatsoever. "Are you Jewish?" I do get after a little conversation. "Yes." They've found me out. I'm a little uncomfortable but a little relieved a piece of my Jew-iness has found the light.

Where's the line? Can we be Americans and denude ourselves of origins and identity? Do we want no marking features but want them at the same time?

Why is someone getting rich off of my diseased Ileum?

Half asleep, I clutch my overstuffed purse, full of breakfast, lunch, book, ipod and heels as I climb up the subway steps already 20 minutes late for work. As I reach the top of the grueling climb up the subway steps, I can't help but see a purple advertisement smushed onto the concrete walkway. I see the word "Crohn's" on this ad.

Huh?

Did I really see "Crohn's?"

A metro swipe and and another flight later, I reach the platform. I see more purple ads flattened and trampled into the concrete of the platform. "Crohn's control"

I pick a dirty ad off the ground. It's an insert. An insert from the Metro or the AM, a free paper available every weekday morning. The insert is an ad for Humira, a biologic treatment approved for Multiple Sclerosis and Crohn's Disease, and perhaps others. I've only heard of it because since experiening my first sigificant flare-up with Crohn's Disease in 2004, I've become obsessed with learning everything there is to know about the Disease. I read about Humira when the FDA approved it last year.

The ad boasts that Humira would allow the user to go out to dinner again. The ad boasted control. Ask your doctor, it said. It said all the right things. As someone who lives each meal and every moment in between with this disease, this ad spoke to me. It knew its audience.

But, I wondered.

How many people who read "Metro" or "AM" have any connection to Crohn's Disease? 1.4 million Americans have been diagnosed with Crohn's Disease and/or Ulcerative Colitis, with about half suffering from Crohn's, so how many of those 700,000 ride a New York subway or walk the New York city streets? Is this ad duplicated elsewhere? How many are candidates for Humira? How many suffer from this moderate to severe Crohn's Disease that this ad suggests?

Every 8 weeks I receive a similar biologic treatment to Humira. Remicade. Remicade has changed my life forever. Remicade makes it so I can wake up each morning, go to work, eat real food, go to the bathroom, hang out with my friends, and bottom line: live my life.

Remicade allows me to be healthy enough to eat dinner at a restaurant without the anxiety that one menu item over another will decide whether I can leave the house or not. Remicade does everything the Humira ad suggests. Remicade and Humira are similar drugs; Humira is a more advanced biologic treatment, though.

What concerns me is this obsessive advertising. Is it necessary? Is it cost-effective? The ad hits me - these drugs are my lifeline and I would not be a functioning person without them. But at the same time, this lifeline has become my chain.

In order to receive Remicade every 8 weeks, I must have health insurance. Remicade is patented and my Doctor's office bills out over $9,000 in charges to the insurance company. Yes, $9,000.

My insurance company usually only pays out around $3,000, but still. $3,000? Yes, these treatments are ground-breaking and have prevented me from having surgery that would remove part or all of my colon and God-forbid, an infinite number of other serious health complications. $3,000 is indefinitely less than the suffering those experiences would bring.

Although, I still wonder.

Why are they advertising? With this small group of people living with the disease and their circles of family and friends who may hand this ad over to them, they seem to be spending so much money.

And who ultimately pays?

I do. I pay.

And you do, too. Regardless of whether you have Crohn's Disease or know someone who does or have even heard of this taboo disease, you pay. Because you have health insurance. Because you have a job that pays for your health insurance. Or because someone pays for your insurance. Or because you don't have insurance, which in that case, you pay the greatest price.

The advertising costs drive up the price of the drug. And I become a slave to it because I need it just to live my life.

We have a serious problem in this country when necessities become fodder for advertisement the same as candy or a car is advertised.

I've done no academic research on this topic. I'm purely a consumer and observer of how my life choices have become chained to the pharmaceutical, insurance and health care industry. I can only report what I've experienced.

Why can't a Crohn's patient's doctor be the first to tell him or her about Humira? Why does he or she have to hear about it from a glossy full-color insert in the free subway newspaper?

Why is someone getting rich off of my diseased ileum?




Crohn's Disease is an autoimmune disorder, causing inflammation of the digestive tract and other serious complications. To learn more about Crohn's Disease, Remicade or Humira, visit: www.ccfa.org

Classic anti-Semitism in Cab 3V27

On my way home from staffing a meeting for work, for an organization that fights anti-Semitism, hatred and bigotry of all kinds, I encountered cab 3V27. A little after 8 PM, I daydreamed out the cab window up Third Avenue, tired after a long day that had me up earlier than usual to vote in the Presidential Primary. It was taking longer than usual. I remarked to the cabbie,

"There's a lot of traffic tonight. I wonder why that is."

He replied, "It's Super Tuesday! A lot of excitement.

"As we went over the 59th Street Bridge, the cab driver told me he and his wife voted this morning for Hillary Clinton. I told him I voted for Barack Obama. To that, the cabbie replied that it was already decided.

Apparently, tonight Hillary Clinton would win the nomination and Barack would be her Vice President. According to an "elected official friend" of his, the Presidential race was, too, already decided. From the "supreme" powers of the FBI, CIA and others, John McCain would surely be the next President of the United States. It was already decided. As we looped around the exit of the 59th Street Bridge and made a right onto 21st Street in Long Island City, the cabbie explained to me why Hillary would win the nomination. You see, Barack would, as president, get involved in Pakistan and other areas. Hillary would get involved in the "Middle East."

I asked why Hillary would get involved in the Middle East.

According to the cabbie, Hillary would be like her husband's Presidency, who had good relations with leaders in the Middle East. I knew at this moment that there was something that the cab driver wanted to say, but needed a light tug.

I asked, "Like with Israel?"

He responded that Hillary would win because the Jews control "the monetary." His english was not good. His grammar was terrible. He kept saying that the Jews control "the monetary." I had tugged, alright...

A small pit formed in my stomach and I grew nervous. We were driving north on 21st Street in Long Island City. I knew this conversation could get interesting. I kept my cool.

I chuckled slightly and said, "but, how could a group of people so small in number control the world?"

"No, no. Not the world. They control the monetary."

"You really think that?"

"You see, God put them here to do that. Even in the Quran it states that. In Egypt, the Pharaohs found Moses."

By this part, I was starting to freak out a little bit. I had flashes of anti-Semitic verbiage flashing in my head. I was contemplating what to do. Should I get out of the cab? Should I listen? Where is this going?

I listened. In my confusion, I got part of the story.

To paraphrase, the Pharaohs had Moses. Moses was not one of them. God sent the angel Gabriel down with a diamond. Apparently this was a hot diamond that could burn. They wanted to test Moses. Gabriel was about to put Moses' hand on the diamond, but at the last moment, God stopped Gabriel. God stopped Gabriel because he sent Moses down to be the one to start the Jews, who would set forth the people who controlled "the monetary."

At this point, I had shakedly steered him towards my street. He was parked in front of Trade Fair, where comforted by the supermarket across from my apartment, I felt I could open my mouth and say something and stop asking questions.

"First of all, the Jews don't control the money or the world. That's ridiculous. The Jews weren't sent here by God to do that. You're twisting it. The Bible says the Jews are the chosen people and were sent here to be a light unto the nations. To be a moral voice."

To this, the cabbie inserted, "My boss is Jewish. Gindi. He owns Century 21. He even says the Jews control the monetary."

"Well, I'M JEWISH."

"I know..."

"What, you know? I'm Jewish and we don't control the world." (As if my I-told-you-so assertion would sway him.)

He apologized. I'm not sure if it was for our conversation or because I gave him a terrible tip.

That was essentially the end of our conversation. I paid, forgot to get a receipt and left the cab shaking.

This man was crazy. He was all about the conspiracy theory. But I can't just walk away from my $14.20 cab ride home from the offices of the Anti-Defamation League, where I work, thinking that this was an isolated incident. Millions, if not billions, of people around the world believe as a matter of fact that Jews control money, the media and the world. And some of them even live in the same city as me and drive me home from a long day of "fighting anti-Semitism."

In Honor of the Burberry Hat that Never Was (Mine)

I was once at the Short Hills mall and in Bloomingdale's and lusted over one particular Burberry hat (You know how I am about my winter accessories). While Burberry apparel is in no way ordinary, this particular hat superseded the extra-ordinariness of even Burberry. It deviated from the standard print. The exactness of this deviation I could not share, because I chickened out over the seemingly, at the time, high price of this perfect little winter hat. I can tell you it had a lime green stripe in place of another color. I love my greens, if only in color.

I spent countless hours, weeks and months later on ebay looking for that perfect hat. My mother spent countless hours, too, looking for this hat on ebay and other outlets. Never to be found again, I still regret not buying that hat. It was above my regular purchasing range, but in retrospect, it wasn't outrageous. This, most likely, was a Burberry hat made for Bloomingdale's exclusively.

So, why is this relevant?

This past Monday I was in Macy's in Herald Square. I absolutely hate the 34th Street area, but found myself there for a "free" clinque makeover (are they ever really free?). As I made my way over to the clinique counter, a certain Ralph Lauren display caught my eye. Deep green. Plum purple stripe. Houndstooth. OMG, I love you, bag. I think I even said, "I want to take you home with me." There was a smaller version and a larger version. Smaller $75, larger $88. Not completely outrageous, actually OK. I wouldn't normally spend that much, but when you fall in love at first sight with an inanimate object and it's not terribly expensive, dive in, right? Well, let's just say we're waiting until the direct deposit drops, the automatic payment of the cc clears and then we're buying non-necessities again. ETA: September 6. Thursday. Now, aforementioned Monday was August 27. This is a long time to wait. To clarify, I am again lusting over designer apparel, this time a deep olive green houndstooth tote bag with plum stripe.

You're still asking, why is this relevant?

This past Sunday, I somehow found myself again at aforementioned Macy's. I can't account for how I got there, but when I arrived at the Ralph Lauren display where I first met the bag on Monday, it was gone! My heart began to race. I looked frantically from left to right and it was gone! I suddenly thought back to the burberry hat and my heart sank. I took a deep breath and politely made my way to the closest register only to ask the nearest sales girl: Do you still have the green and purple Ralph Lauren bags? Over there!!! She pointed to somewhere else. I had no idea where she pointed but breathed a heavy sigh of relief in that they still existed.

I walked over there, which really was aimless until I found another Ralph Lauren display and there they were. In all their glory, they were beautifully displayed alongside a similar khaki-colored bag. Small and large. Same price, but hardly as lovely. I mulled over the bag. Buy now? Wait? September 6 I kept reminding myself. I really shouldn't, but what if they're gone by then? I mulled further and finally asked the closest saleswoman, Are these bags going fast? She told me she herself had sold three since they had moved to this part of the store. That didn't seem like a large number to me, but who even knows.

I went to other parts of the store, tried other things on, and bought nothing. I didn't walk past the bag again. Fortunately I have no time between now and September 6 to make an appearance again at Macy's. Hopefully a positive outcome will result, if only to uphold honor for the Burberry hat that never was mine.