tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1713121833097097352024-03-17T20:04:18.557-07:00out of the pantry - gabi moskowitzUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger214125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-24255937120544466062023-12-30T15:46:00.000-08:002023-12-30T16:17:36.280-08:00better placesOne of the funny things about being relatively early to the blogosphere (to give you a sense of how early, I started this blog and <a href="https://brokeassgourmet.com/">BrokeAss Gourmet</a> in 2008, and still use words like "blogosphere") is that my blogs serve, to me anyway, as sort of a public record of what was going on with me--food-wise, of course, but also creatively and emotionally, whenever I dare to scroll backward. <div><br /><div>In general, I have avoided doing this, mostly because I find it hard not to cringe when I read my old work, whether it's an old blog post, an actual edited, published book, or one of those obnoxious Facebook "memories"--an emo song lyric, a thinly-veiled yet vague reference to whatever incredibly specific drama I found myself embroiled in and/or caused, or a joke I thought was hysterically funny fifteen years ago, but which absolutely did not stand the test of time. It's so tempting to look away, to shut my laptop, to pretend I never was the person who had those silly thoughts, who wrote that deeply imperfect thing, who thought it was a good idea to share it with the world. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lately though, I've found that, as I've aged, branched out to work on other things, settled fully into nearly a decade of marriage, birthed and raised children, etc., some of my memories of those early days have begun to fade together into one big, soft bundle of post-college-early-adulthood mush. Suddenly, I find myself eager to conjure them, in all their clunky, awkward, sad, or embarrassing glory. As my identity coalesces into this newly mid-life, wife/mom, fine-lines-and-wrinkles version of itself, love it though I do, I don't want all the previous ones to end up on the cutting room floor. I don't want to be the same person I was when I was nineteen, or twenty-four, or twenty-nine, but I don't want her to be entirely lost to time, either.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>One thing about having kids is that you become increasingly aware that, while many of the people around you might know who you are, fewer and fewer people know who you <i>actually </i>are, and in the process, you start to forget too. You are Mom. You are Mommy. You are so-and-so's mom. Your children find out you have a first name other than what they call you and they think it's absolutely hysterical and maybe a little bit upsetting, which is how it sometimes feels when you remember the time before they existed, when you were someone else.</div><div><br /></div><div>Another thing about having kids, is that, while your children are absolutely their own unique and wonderful selves, there's no escaping the fact that, probably, they'll inherit at least a few of your own traits. And sometimes, if you're lucky, one of those traits will be something you've never liked about yourself. Something you tried desperately to hide from the world when you were young, or maybe even after you grew up. Maybe even now. But in your own beautiful, perfect, amazing kid, that terrible, awful thing suddenly doesn't seem so terrible or awful. In your child, not only do you accept it as part of who he or she is, you actually love it about them. You see how it fits into the whole picture of who they are--maybe even how it makes them better, and you're grateful for it, because you wouldn't want them to be any other way, and suddenly, you wonder why you were so committed to hating those things in yourself.</div><div><br /></div><div>For years I've been hearing that, as you get older, you stop giving so many fucks. Like, the morning you turn forty, you're reborn as fearless, headstrong and unconcerned with what anyone thinks about you, but I think that, for me at least, it's a bit more subtle. It's not that you stop caring what anyone thinks, it's that, you officially realize that time is not slowing down, and you might as well learn to like yourself, because what point is there in living any other way? This annoys your inner critic and makes it harder for outer ones to hurt you, which makes it seem like you care less, but actually, it's that you care a lot more. You don't lose the fucks, you just reallocate them to better places.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-47838295478908988182020-10-05T15:59:00.009-07:002020-10-05T19:10:39.904-07:00pandemic pregnancy<p>I had suspected I might be pregnant for a few days before I got up the nerve to actually take a test. My period was three days late, but we had been trying for awhile, and I knew better than to let myself get excited. Periods could be late for all kinds of reasons, and I was well-aware, thanks to panicked googling and unsolicited advice, that, at thirty-eight, even the most methodic approach to conception (temperature taking, calendaring, peeing on ovulation test strips, etc.) might ultimately prove ineffective. I tried to put it out of my mind until a little more time had passed, but when day three turned into five, and my breasts began to vaguely ache, I decided to go for it. I put my two-year-old down for a nap, peed on yet another stick--this one a Clearblue digital test (this was the kind I used when I learned I was pregnant with my daughter nearly three years earlier, and I had developed a superstition that this brand might somehow be more likely to give me a positive result a second time--a theory which had, at least until this point, turned out to be wrong). I paced around my bathroom for five minutes as the test counted down, held my breath, and checked. Sure enough, the word PREGNANT flashed in all-caps on the test's tiny screen.</p><p>I waited for my husband to finish teaching his afternoon distance-learning class on Zoom, caught him in the kitchen and told him the news. Unsurprisingly, he was thrilled--we had been wanting a second child for a long time, and had begun to worry that it might not be as easy as it had been previously. And then, for the first time since I realized my period was late, I took a deep breath and let our new reality sink in: We had done it, and if all went well, God-willing, we were going to become parents for the second time...and we were going to do it in the throes of a worldwide pandemic.</p><p>In many ways, being pregnant during a pandemic is much like being pregnant any other time (that is, if you have good, safe shelter, plenty of food, and quality medical care, all of which I am privileged to have, and have never been so grateful for). Just as with my first pregnancy, during the first four months, I was sick from the time I woke up until I went to bed at night ("morning sickness" is a hilarious misnomer). I couldn't keep any food down that wasn't a flavorless carbohydrate, and even the faintest of faraway bad smells could trigger my gag reflex. This phase of pregnancy lends itself well to the stay-at-home lifestyle of a world infected by COVID-19. </p><p>Now well into my second trimester, I've stopped throwing up and have begun spending a bit more time out in the world: walks and hikes, masked grocery store trips, the occasional takeout run. I only recently crossed the threshold from simply looking a little bit wider and rounder in the midsection to having a pronounced and visible baby bump, and have been surprised to find that masks and social distance do not necessarily prevent strangers from asking the usual questions ("do you know what you're having?" "when are you due?" "<insert unprompted, often terrifying story about his/her experience with pregnancy/childbirth>"). There is much kindness: those who offer to let me go ahead of them in line, the cashier at my local grocery store who never forgets to ask how I am feeling. And then, there are the "quarantine-baby" jokes: the implication being that one's pregnancy is the result of having nothing else to do during the pandemic but procreate. Hilarious.</p><p>I have also learned a secret that most men were already privy to: if you can find a tree, two open car doors, or even just a secluded corner, have confidence, and are quick, you can pee in nearly any outdoor public space without anyone noticing. Many public bathrooms are now closed (or don't feel COVID-safe enough), but pregnancy makes the need to urinate frequent and urgent, so I have had to adapt. Recently, at a nearly-empty park with my daughter, I explained that mommy needed to go potty very badly and I couldn't wait until we got home, and she watched (and erupted into giggles) as I quickly squatted and did my business behind a bush. "Mommy is a doggy!" she repeated the entire walk home.</p><p>It's nice to have a happy thing to focus on as the world both literally and figuratively burns, but I won't deny that I'm terrified about bringing a new human into the world in the state it's currently in. If there is one thing I've learned, it's that there is always something to be anxious about in pregnancy: new test results to anticipate, sonograms to worry about, the potential that birth might not go according to plan (or worse, that it might go completely off the rails). There is so much that is out of my hands, which has forced me to focus on what I can control: I can take my prenatal vitamin, exercise, try to eat well. I can try to get enough rest.</p><p>I can also vote. I can fight like hell for my rights and the rights of those more vulnerable than I am. I can give money and time to organizations that are pushing for the kind of change I want to see in the world. I may not be able to single-handedly control the outcome, but I can do everything in my power to try to move the needle. I'll admit, my faith is a little shaky right now, but my resolve has never been stronger.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-35553755317637863392020-04-05T20:16:00.002-07:002020-04-05T20:16:48.023-07:00An Echad Mi Yodea/Who Knows One for Your Social Distancing SederWho knows one? I know one. One is my house, which is now also an office, gym, and school.<br />
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Who know two? I know two. Two are my hands, which I now wash constantly for at least twenty seconds.<br />
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Who knows three? I know three. Three is the number of days COVID-19 remains on metal and plastic, and also the number of husbands Joe Exotic had in Tiger King.<br />
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Who knows four? I know four. Four AM existential grief and panic attacks.<br />
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Who knows five? I know five. Five days to ripe sourdough starter!<br />
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Who knows six? I know six. Six feet of distance between yourself and others.<br />
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Who knows seven? I know seven. Seven days in a week...I think? Maybe? What is time?<br />
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Who knows eight? I know eight. Eight people maximum in a Zoom call before everything starts going to shit.<br />
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Who knows nine? I know nine. Nine is the total number of toilet paper rolls left in the entire state of California.<br />
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Who knows ten? I know ten. "Ten out of ten" is the score Trump gave himself for his shameful mishandling this pandemic.<br />
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Who knows eleven? I know eleven. Eleven A.M. cocktails are a thing now.<br />
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Who knows twelve? I know twelve. Twelve months minimum until we have a vaccine.<br />
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Who knows thirteen? I know thirteen. Thirteen professional awards bestowed upon the great Dr. Anthony Fauci.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-28502549432724973802020-03-04T11:32:00.000-08:002020-03-04T14:37:22.481-08:00out of milk<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_K0HdHaAAlAqmm7KYS3r6l9_zT-C5L9EvchhE_8W7nMbgEPe__41qnLLBRgIvbeRl8mXKyffjkDe4PbxuIEdWSEr3bKbI8Z1o31f2DhtiSn-uxR0pROjBtgOzJzhAmVjV-WOz9N2MeCl/s1600/94AA9406-C326-46E7-B920-B1880B4F0DBA.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1514" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_K0HdHaAAlAqmm7KYS3r6l9_zT-C5L9EvchhE_8W7nMbgEPe__41qnLLBRgIvbeRl8mXKyffjkDe4PbxuIEdWSEr3bKbI8Z1o31f2DhtiSn-uxR0pROjBtgOzJzhAmVjV-WOz9N2MeCl/s320/94AA9406-C326-46E7-B920-B1880B4F0DBA.JPG" width="302" /></a>Six days ago, I stopped breastfeeding.<br />
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It was time. My daughter is almost two, and has been eating solids for the last year-and-a-half (cooking with her is one of the greatest joys I have ever experienced). For the last year, nursing has been much more of a comfort than sustenance for her. It's been one of my favorite things about early motherhood. The physical and emotional bond it created between us was unlike anything I had ever experienced. And while I really did want to stop, I am missing it terribly.<br />
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When it was time, she and I talked about it. She seemed to get it as much as it's possible for a toddler to do so. I let her choose a couple of special drinks to have instead of breastmilk for times when we would normally nurse. She asked for bubbly water with lemon (so sophisticated) and a strawberry-banana smoothie. I was happy to oblige.<br />
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It's been going...okay. Sometimes the excitement over her bubbly water and smoothie is enough to distract her, but sometimes, I can see the processing grief on her face and I know she is struggling to understand why we can't just do the thing we have done as long as she can remember. She's asked for it a few times since we stopped, sometimes in earnest, and sometimes facetiously, the same way she might ask for a cookie right before bedtime--in a way that makes clear that she knows it will never happen and is in on the joke.<br />
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I'm slightly ashamed to admit that I worried withholding something she wanted so much might, on some level, change the way she felt about me. It reminded me of my single years when I sometimes felt compelled to sleep with men before I was ready because of a misguided belief that if I gave them what they wanted, they would want me more--or at least be discouraged from rejecting me. But I've been relieved to find that Anna's love is unconditional.<br />
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Now the new normal is setting in for all of us. The uncomfortable tingling and mild swelling as my confused breasts made milk that went un-drunk for a few days has subsided now. My doctor told me it might take as long as two weeks for milk production to completely shut down, but as far as I can tell, they seem pretty much done.<br />
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It occurred to me last night that this is the first time in nearly three years that my body hasn't been either the home or dairy farm for another person. I'm hoping to get pregnant again soon, so I know this may be a short window, but for the first time in a long time, it's mine again (sure, I have a toddler physically attached to me most of the time, but still). It made me think about all the ways that my body started to feel like public property the moment I started to look visibly pregnant. The unsolicited questions, comments, and advice from strangers, the occasional unwanted hand on my belly, the comments on the rate at which I was "getting my figure back" after she was born. I remembered how sometimes in those very early days, while walking with Anna wrapped in a carrier on my chest or tucked into her stroller, strangers would ask to see her or, a few times, reach forward into her stroller to lift the blanket I had draped over her while she slept to "take a peek" without asking. I remembered how I had thought to myself then that it was as if they didn't realize she was an actual person, and that no person deserves to have their physical space violated so a stranger can look at them while they sleep.<br />
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My body is different now than it used to be. It's marked by motherhood: tiny flyaway hairs which seemingly sprouted immediately after I gave birth still jut out from my hairline. A faded linea nigra still marks the lower half of my torso, and my breasts are neither the shape nor size, nor, um, <i>texture</i> they were before. I've lost weight since giving birth--enough so that most of my pre-pregnancy clothes no longer fit, but I never bothered to replace them with anything other than stretchy cotton things I could easily nurse in. My body is mine again, but so much of it has changed that I hardly recognize it as a whole.<br />
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As painful as it's been to end our nursing relationship, I'm inspired by the way Anna has handled it. She doesn't keep things inside or hide her feelings--she's a toddler, she doesn't know how to do that. She moves through everything in real time: her ambivalence, her sadness, her joy. I hope to emulate her as we integrate into this new phase. The end of nursing is sad, but snuggles and smoothies are amazing. It's hard to long for something you can't have, but knowing that you're going through it with someone you love helps. And yes, my body has changed, but it will likely only continue to change more as time goes on. If change is the only constant, then perhaps radical acceptance is the only way forward.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-40833630494289985862019-04-19T08:44:00.002-07:002019-04-19T09:14:42.724-07:00To Anna on Her First BirthdayMy Sweetest Anna,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqP5mA9n-kdf6aw4rcJER5r-5AEMsvxNCP3clwmXQ8AQ1IOaU-OAsekWGMJBkKSKCQvauqgACqJcIZp48pHdKKVRiHHNgFf_V0uozKUuC9w9AFJgZnYJgQ-bt0MMMsPQRhksEoJU9duItE/s1600/30727725_10101055390525851_5642717579534401536_o+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqP5mA9n-kdf6aw4rcJER5r-5AEMsvxNCP3clwmXQ8AQ1IOaU-OAsekWGMJBkKSKCQvauqgACqJcIZp48pHdKKVRiHHNgFf_V0uozKUuC9w9AFJgZnYJgQ-bt0MMMsPQRhksEoJU9duItE/s320/30727725_10101055390525851_5642717579534401536_o+%25281%2529.jpg" width="275" /></a></div>
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One year ago today, at 4:55 in the morning, after nearly forty hours of labor, you came sailing into my life, changing it and me forever.</div>
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Now that you're here, it's hard to believe that there was ever a time when you weren't. Being your mother is truly the greatest privilege I have ever had.</div>
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It was about a week past your due date when your daddy and I went to the doctor for a check-up, just to make sure everything was okay. As luck would have it, the end of that appointment was when you decided to begin your entry into our world.</div>
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Like the true individual you are, you took your time with your arrival. You wiggled and bounced and rattled your little nine-months-in-the-making home inside of me for hours before we actually went to the hospital. When I called her to say it might be time, your Nana drove from Santa Rosa to San Francisco in record-breaking (and highly illegal) time. Your Poppy came down as well and we all sat in the living room of our San Francisco apartment, eating Thai food and singing folk songs while your dad played guitar. Every few minutes, you would clench and push inside of me and I would yell at everyone to stop singing, and squeeze whoever was closest until the contraction passed.</div>
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Finally, around 11 PM, we all felt like it was time to go to the hospital. I sat between your Nana and daddy in the backseat of the car as we drove to the hospital and held onto them tightly, squeezing hard with every bump we drove over. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2_31hA-LFzLJ0whaCLblkVIb_uJCVvMf8HKuVhtL12FGZJFnpRcOMXAjVOtw0QRxA3xQu0xrggaxT2fT50QsFdjLlWuvGG0xKo8KEmQN327GQRi6ARDKOMEW3v79opWFxvV7OlBfd-LO/s1600/31096670_10214696115969855_5269287361606320128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2_31hA-LFzLJ0whaCLblkVIb_uJCVvMf8HKuVhtL12FGZJFnpRcOMXAjVOtw0QRxA3xQu0xrggaxT2fT50QsFdjLlWuvGG0xKo8KEmQN327GQRi6ARDKOMEW3v79opWFxvV7OlBfd-LO/s320/31096670_10214696115969855_5269287361606320128_n.jpg" width="240" /></a>When we got to the hospital, they checked us into our room and we all got ready to welcome you. The doctors and nurses let us know that the reason you were taking a little longer than they expected to come out was because you were turned to the side. "She's looking out the window," your daddy said. I think of that every night when you sit with him and look out the window of our bedroom before you go to bed.</div>
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The nurses brought me a big rubber thing called a "peanut." They had me lay on my side, facing the opposite direction you were facing, and hold the peanut between my knees to encourage you to flip back to the middle. I kept it there for hours while you wiggled and kicked and eventually made your way to where they wanted you. </div>
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Finally, the nurses told me, it was time for you to come. Well, not exactly <i>time</i>, but time to get ready for <i>time. </i>What followed was the most surreal half hour of my life. While the doctors and nurses moved around the room, getting their equipment ready to receive you, your dad and Nana and I got ourselves ready. Daddy will tell you that during this time I was acting pretty weird. I kept insisting that he put on more chapstick because I was worried that his lips were dry, and started worrying about all kinds of unimportant things like whether the bags we brought were organized enough and whether I could have a straw in the plastic yellow hospital pitcher I was drinking out of.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45adNNUZk2pgwkmms0tsGKEvVn6KLSHV6H1bjRJJkAyqxn6oPcpRwa33nVQs-HeTEApHF4I1-Tc2lQG8qSlTBYm8t1lYM9UmKkxFpGpq76eAyH_lgXk52ATZB-VGA28c1uoU9PMhgZEcJ/s1600/45862490_10156814317763928_2981564578896281600_n+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="719" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45adNNUZk2pgwkmms0tsGKEvVn6KLSHV6H1bjRJJkAyqxn6oPcpRwa33nVQs-HeTEApHF4I1-Tc2lQG8qSlTBYm8t1lYM9UmKkxFpGpq76eAyH_lgXk52ATZB-VGA28c1uoU9PMhgZEcJ/s320/45862490_10156814317763928_2981564578896281600_n+%25281%2529.jpg" width="239" /></a>When the nurses finally told me to push, you came out faster than any of us thought was possible, and suddenly there you were, a little purple with a pineapple-shaped head that completely freaked your father out until he was reassured by everyone that it would go back to normal soon, but absolutely perfect in every way, on my chest, looking me right in the eyes. In a millisecond, you cracked open my heart and triggered the release of more love than I knew it was possible to feel.<br />
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So much has changed since that early morning on April 19, 2018! It took us a little while to get into a rhythm, but together, your daddy, you, and I all learned how to operate as a family of three. And now you can do so many things! You can crawl, you eat all kinds of delicious foods, like avocado, kale (we know, we know, could we be more of a cliché?), Bamba, brisket, chicken soup, mozzarella, ravioli, and blueberries, just to name a few favorites.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCX_zczJt1tGdhGbTsxam8sKmt2eT-8rBVMjvA0CsVf_29CU9dBJZdBDq8CI38I9TQcJgheke1ndncDtXoHDWn7tC8n3F62b3PKlXByDc6iGav6yi6ayz8c-1kl6dlw-ShDgGhNXma-5hL/s1600/IMG_2256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCX_zczJt1tGdhGbTsxam8sKmt2eT-8rBVMjvA0CsVf_29CU9dBJZdBDq8CI38I9TQcJgheke1ndncDtXoHDWn7tC8n3F62b3PKlXByDc6iGav6yi6ayz8c-1kl6dlw-ShDgGhNXma-5hL/s320/IMG_2256.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: center;">And every day you're learning more and more. Soon, you'll have more words (right now your favorites are, "dada," "mama," "dog-dog," "yes," and "CAT!"). You play peek-a-boo like a champ, wave hello and goodbye, and love to offer other people a bite of whatever you are eating, like the generous lady you are. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeQZyjjQQCk_koiSa1wGQtvzKw-GI5Qm3rI7VC8HpwbbzXswLGzEV9AW4o37O2XfiYnk5cxwLFmSB3V76i_9TIlDB8R8rm7X5nGom_TeQFj5gggtg0abLvXLJy7nVXWBOSESMd_S050RIq/s1600/51007163_10101189252156071_2787892872748204032_o+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeQZyjjQQCk_koiSa1wGQtvzKw-GI5Qm3rI7VC8HpwbbzXswLGzEV9AW4o37O2XfiYnk5cxwLFmSB3V76i_9TIlDB8R8rm7X5nGom_TeQFj5gggtg0abLvXLJy7nVXWBOSESMd_S050RIq/s320/51007163_10101189252156071_2787892872748204032_o+%25281%2529.jpg" width="256" /></a>And you are always singing! Whether to your Nanny and Gramps on Facetime, to your daddy and me while he plays the guitar, or to the lucky shoppers who just happen to be in the Whole Foods produce department at the same time as we are, you are never not vocalizing and waving your hands around dramatically to entertain those around you. And it is <i>extremely</i> entertaining.<br />
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You are growing up so quickly and I know there is so much more to come this year my sweet girl, but I'm in no hurry for you to turn into a big kid too fast. I promise to give you the best childhood I possibly can. I promise to always meet you where you are and support you as you pursue whatever satisfies your soul and makes your heart sing as loudly and clearly as you do in grocery stores.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMZR6mHEMHeEiotAIxZ_S3NrIXhUxyJR2KJDmPNkb_b-fs-1YfqEvuhv6H1k3aj92wW1UhqJpkRB5rW0kGAxRQ688Qx87rGaA3tF5FrgKcjhtczjE0xzsvh_XQ_spOTlnAxewQCenAj-d/s1600/IMG_2261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1199" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMZR6mHEMHeEiotAIxZ_S3NrIXhUxyJR2KJDmPNkb_b-fs-1YfqEvuhv6H1k3aj92wW1UhqJpkRB5rW0kGAxRQ688Qx87rGaA3tF5FrgKcjhtczjE0xzsvh_XQ_spOTlnAxewQCenAj-d/s320/IMG_2261.jpg" width="239" /></a>Thank you for everything you've brought into my life, Anna Mari. Today there will be a homemade chocolate cake, way too many presents, and a family who loves you more than anything celebrating the special girl you are. Tomorrow, you will be one year and one day old, surely ready to conquer the world. Happy birthday, dear daughter. I love you.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-43975191362036881902019-01-25T14:50:00.003-08:002019-01-25T19:45:29.875-08:00i can hear you now I'm five years old, just a few weeks into kindergarten at my new elementary school. The school nurse leads me down the shady breezeway between my classroom and the main office so she can test my vision and hearing. Taking a test seems very grown-up and I have recently begun to suspect that I am very smart, so I beam as I tell her which pictures and letters I see on the black and white cards she holds up, and raise my hand when I hear the high-pitched dings in the bulky headphones with vinyl coverings, like the ones my father uses to listen to records at night. I am certain I am impressing the nurse with my intelligence and poise. She smiles back at me, further securing my certainty that I am nailing the test.<br />
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A few days later, she comes back to my classroom and takes me once again to the office for another test. This time we're just testing my hearing. She says she wants me to take a special hearing test, one that is a little longer than the one we took before. I oblige, happy to demonstrate my talents once again.<br />
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This time, after I slip on the headphones and she switches on the testing machine, I hear a few dings, but they are spaced further and further apart with long stretches of silence. The nurse covers her mouth with a clipboard and reads words to me and asks me to repeat them back to her. I recognize some of them, but a surprising number of them don't sound like real words. I say them anyway and she smiles back at me, but every few words, I see what looks like a tiny frown in the corner of her mouth, almost too quickly for me to see, but I catch it.<br />
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A few days later, my mother explains that I have a little bit of a hearing problem. She says I need to always make sure I can understand what my teachers are saying. I promise I will.<br />
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As I get older, my hearing problem becomes more and more noticeable to me and everyone else. I mishear things all the time, often to the delight of my friends and classmates. A game of "telephone" is sure to be hilarious if I am somewhere on the chain, attempting to hear whatever silly phrase is whispered to me and inevitably misunderstanding it and repeating something even sillier. It becomes my thing--I'm the Amelia Bedelia of Hidden Valley Elementary School. I somehow manage to do pretty well in school. I sit as close to where the teachers are talking as I can. When I miss something, I ask for it to be repeated. But I also start to notice the annoyed tone in others' voices when they repeat things I miss, especially when I ask them to repeat them more than once. It becomes hard to separate others' frustration about having to repeat themselves from frustration with me, so sometimes I decide it's better not to ask them to say it again. Sometimes I make the decision to just not know.<br />
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When I am in tenth grade, my parents drive me an hour south of our town to the UCSF medical center in San Francisco, where I have an MRI to determine what is going on with my ears. It turns out that many of my cochlea, the tiny hair cells inside that help filter sound, are damaged, probably since birth, which explains why I have such a hard time hearing. Despite my protestations, I am fitted for hearing aids.<br />
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The experience of wearing the hearing aids is terrible. For a few months, I slip them into my ears in a stall of the school bathroom before class and pull my hair down on either side of my face, but they make everything incredibly loud. Background noises overpower the sounds I actually want to hear. Instead of the lesson my algebra teacher is giving, I hear every scratch of a pencil and ripping notebook paper and gum snapping and breathing of every kid in my quadrant of the classroom. Instead of helping me understand my teachers, my brain feels like it is going to implode in response to all the information being hurled at it. I eventually stop wearing them.<br />
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For most of my young adulthood, I am embarrassed by my hearing, but I cope. I ask for words to be repeated. I explain that I have some hearing loss. Once I'm no longer a child among children, the teasing pretty much stops. Still, I am anxious every time I enter into a situation where I might have trouble hearing, which is pretty much everything other than sitting across from one other person in a quiet room. If someone speaks quietly or with a mumble, I am lost. I get good at faking understanding, but not good enough that I am never caught.<br />
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When I am thirty-six, I give birth to a little girl. We stay at the hospital for three days. Every fifteen minutes, it seems, a different nurse, doctor, or other hospital worker comes into the room for one reason or another. I struggle to hear many of them, but I am so in love with my new baby that I almost don't care.<br />
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As the months go by, I start to worry that my hearing will impact my mothering. I'm terrified that I will accidentally miss her cries, so I use a video monitor, even though we live in a one-bedroom apartment. When she sleeps, I carry it around with me, cranked up at top volume, checking it constantly.<br />
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My mother suggests I visit an audiologist, just to find out what is going on. I am annoyed with her for doing so, but I make the appointment anyway. When I go in for my hearing test, which is surprisingly similar to the ones I took as a kid, the audiologist matter-of-factly informs me that I have a severe hearing loss and that I definitely need hearing aids. I explain my hesitation, citing my bad experience in high school.<br />
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"That was twenty years ago," she tells me. "The technology has gotten much, much better. Now we have hearing aids that can go entirely into your ears, and help to filter out background noise. But also, if you don't get this taken care of now, you could have some serious cognitive issues down the line -- there is a lot of research that indicates that hearing loss can lead to dementia and a whole host of other problems."<br />
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And so, two weeks ago, I was once again fitted with hearing aids. They are tiny, imperceptible. They fit completely into my ear canal and cannot be seen unless you are looking.<br />
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As she tucks them into my ears and switches them on, I hear the <i>clack clack clack</i> of my daughter's hands on her toys, from the blanket at my feet where she is sitting on the floor of the audiologist's office. I am immediately aware that I would not have been able to hear those sounds before. I pick my daughter up and kiss her tummy which makes her giggle, and I feel my eyes well up as I notice that I have never been able to really hear the richness of her laugh before that moment. We play music on the drive home, and I hear notes in songs I've known for years that I didn't know were there before. That evening, my husband and I have a conversation from separate rooms--something I don't think I have ever done with anyone in my life.<br />
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There is still a lot left to adjust to. Because I missed so much, my brain has spent years taking in much less information than it is now, and it is still learning what to do with it all. For the first week, I kept thinking my husband was speaking to me sharply. Eventually, I figured out that what was really going on was that, after seven years together, I was actually hearing the sound of his voice for the first time. He had grown accustomed to speaking to me at a higher volume, and now that I didn't require it anymore, it had a different effect.<br />
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I still seize up with muscle memory anxiety when I enter a situation that would previously have been challenging for me hearing-wise, but the experience of finally being able to relax, knowing I'm not going to have to pretend to have understood someone while silently churning with shame on the inside is incredibly liberating.<br />
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There's another unexpected pleasure I get to enjoy now that I wear hearing aids, one which I never could have predicted: All day long, I wear these incredible devices which correct my hearing loss by magnifying sounds I am not able to naturally hear, and it is truly amazing. But at the end of the day, when I take them out of my ears and place them in their case for safekeeping, the quiet of my unassisted hearing that surrounds me is surprisingly satisfying. All the street noise disappears--I hear only what is very close to me, like closing the door to a very noisy room. In that moment, it's as if my hearing loss, the source of so much trouble and pain over the years, becomes a tiny gift.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-41845964326895375412018-12-31T13:35:00.001-08:002018-12-31T13:39:09.268-08:00you don't have to like meA couple of years ago, someone I used to be friends with made it clear in a public way that he strongly disliked me. Truthfully, I didn't like him very much either, but I also didn't feel the need to share it explicitly. Because I didn't care to engage with him in what I perceived as a pretty inappropriate forum, I ignored his comments and that was pretty much the end of it.<br />
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While it was embarrassing to be the subject of someone's social media diatribe, I was surprised to find that I didn't especially mind that he had so much distaste for me. In fact, I kind of welcomed it. After all, it made sense that someone I wasn't a fan of wasn't a fan of me, and his loudness about it kind of broke the seal on the whole thing.<br />
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I have spent most of my life worrying about being liked. From mean girls on the elementary school playground, to cliques I felt rejected from in high school, to every guy who didn't want to date me, every job I didn't get, and every stranger who called me fat or ugly on the internet, I have taken it all as concrete proof that there was something wrong with me. But being lambasted by someone whose opinion didn't matter to me at all helped to highlight just how meaningless it is to be disliked by anyone other than the people I really care about. And once I wrapped my head around the fact that it was okay to not be liked by someone I myself didn't like, I started to think about how it's also okay to not be liked by a lot of other people too. I'm a complicated person with plenty of traits and habits that might not appeal to everyone. I don't like everyone -- why should everyone like me?<br />
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Having a kid provides daily reminders of the limits to my likability. My adorable eight-month-old attracts a lot of attention when we're out together, but strangers who try to touch her without asking (or honestly, even those who do ask first--why are you trying to touch a baby you don't know?) are met by a growling, protective mama bear I didn't know I had living inside of me. And those who offer unsolicited advice on how I should dress, carry, feed, or otherwise care for my baby are not responded to warmly. Sometimes my daughter cries in restaurants or on airplanes, and, while I always do my best to be a good member of society and calm her down or take her outside, sometimes it's not possible and those around me have to deal with the screams of an upset baby. The codependent like-junkie side of me wishes I could find some way to simultaneously prioritize my baby's needs and keep myself in the good graces of strangers, but generally, that is impossible, and her needs come first, so everyone else can eff off. And speaking of whom, my darling daughter is regularly displeased with me. Depending on her mood, my attempts to change her, remove her from the bathtub, or pry her tiny fist off of my foolishly chosen dangly earring might be met with shrieks of protest. But it doesn't matter because I am her mother and it is my job.<br />
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Getting comfortable with not always being liked is an ongoing practice, and not easy. From the time we are very young, society teaches women that being liked should be a major priority. Likewise, social media encourages us to derive real meaning from likes, retweets, and public compliments. It's hard to break the habit of constantly seeking approval, but I invite you to join me in trying. Because once you stop listening to the static of your anxiety about the opinions of other people, it becomes much easier to hear what's actually going on inside of you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-52034519404632658372018-02-27T16:31:00.002-08:002018-02-27T17:23:37.158-08:00waterworks on aisle 5There are plenty of things that come with pregnancy to complain about: the first fourteen weeks that brought me nauseous, vomitous misery ("morning sickness" is a misnomer--it was all day and all night); the searing round ligament pain that punishes me if I change positions in bed too abruptly; the ache in my hips and lower back after a long day; the weight of my expanding uterus that pushes on my bladder, making my daily run no longer possible, and punctuating the long walks that replaced it with three to five bathroom stops.<br />
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And then there's the fact that, lately, I can't seem to stop crying.<br />
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These aren't depressed tears (though <a href="https://www.parents.com/pregnancy/my-life/emotions/coping-with-anxiety-and-depression-during-pregnancy/">depression during pregnancy is a very real and serious thing</a>), nor do I feel particularly sad. Rather, I find myself <i>moved </i>at least half a dozen times a day, thanks to the hormones coursing through my body during this time of extreme change. Everything from particularly emotional <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovY6yjTe1LE">commercials</a>, to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZc_qGLP0qY">songs I've heard a million times but which now seem to take on deeper meaning</a>, to the gentle Southwest employee who saw my belly and immediately offered me pre-boarding and help with my extremely light garment bag (I sobbed with gratitude from the moment he scanned my upgraded ticket, through taxiing and takeoff) can bring on the waterworks. But they're often provoked by nothing more than a fleeting thought about how lucky I feel, how great my husband is, or how excited I am to meet my daughter.<br />
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And yeah, the crying can be a little inconvenient, distracting me as I try to work or cook dinner or grocery shop (thanks again for checking in, gravely concerned lady in the Whole Foods produce department), but in a funny way, I also kind of like it. I have always been a sensitive person, but as I've gotten older, I've found my ability to feel intense emotion has dulled a bit. Maybe it's an effect of social media over-saturation, or the fact that nearly every day there's devastating news in the world, and feeling it all, all the time, is overwhelming and so I've learned not to let it all in. But this renewed connection to my tear ducts has been surprisingly invigorating. I feel more connected to myself and to the world around me, even when I'm only weeping because avocados are on sale.<br />
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I have a lot of hopes for the fast-approaching early days of parenting just ahead, but most of all, I hope I'm able to retain the presentness that the emotional rollercoaster of pregnancy has provided me. I hope I'm able to stay dropped in and connected, so as to be as completely, utterly available to my child's needs while she eats, sleeps, learns, grows, and, of course, cries.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com112tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-77153695147457966932017-03-21T16:00:00.000-07:002017-03-21T18:51:47.435-07:00the knot<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0XD9hRHge0IIHGxpIrslOmaC36tf80qdptRWSsFm_us-gU68ucosLp_lL-GCa6pK8kXYpy1wCJFzdcniuhj5xUUlcA0eDuap-btvJXRxIHuPXnSF1OglZRhFmn8Bl3g3UgqTWNbGWr_S0/s1600/ball-of-mess-1024x845.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0XD9hRHge0IIHGxpIrslOmaC36tf80qdptRWSsFm_us-gU68ucosLp_lL-GCa6pK8kXYpy1wCJFzdcniuhj5xUUlcA0eDuap-btvJXRxIHuPXnSF1OglZRhFmn8Bl3g3UgqTWNbGWr_S0/s320/ball-of-mess-1024x845.png" width="320" /></a>When I was younger, one of the hardest things about falling in and out of love was the repeated discovery that no one person was the solution to what I perceived as the giant knot of messiness inside of me. Early love--that point where you know just enough to know you want more--has a way of making you believe that if you can just turn this thing into a real relationship, everything will be okay. Surely, your new identity as partner to this wonderful person will wash away all of your fears about yourself. If you are proven lovable, then everything will be fine.<br />
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But then, even when you do actually fall into something real, you find that, despite all that love you're getting, you're still you, giant knot of messiness and all. In fact, not only can it not fix what's inside of you, you find it can be hard to receive love fully when you're distracted by your own inner chaos. You learn that the only way to free yourself of the knot is to attempt to untangle it--and that no one but you can do that. </div>
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Work and success come with a version of this. When you're young, green, and struggling to discover your professional path, it's tempting to believe that one day, when you finally land the right job/raise your profile/acquire enough accolades, you will finally shut down the mercilessly berating voice that has been giving you shit since you accidentally scored a goal for the other team during kickball in second grade. But then success does come in various forms, and that voice still won't shut up; she just starts talking about how you don't have enough Twitter followers and your book sales could be better.</div>
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I wish this last paragraph was a recommendation that you try some brand new method I just discovered--some special new therapy that can help you, too, to take your demons to the mat, yank them from their comfortable home, and throw them into the river so they can never bother you again. But it's really just a reminder that nobody actually knows what they're doing. We're all just trying to keep our respective tangled knots from hurting the people we love while simultaneously doing our best to block out our inner critics. And sometimes just remembering that everyone else is trying to climb their own version of the same mountain is the thing that really helps.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-85157687947605965482017-03-09T18:20:00.002-08:002017-03-09T23:34:50.305-08:00learning to surrender at 30,000 feetA few years ago, seemingly out of nowhere, I became an easily panicked airplane passenger. I'm not sure what specifically brought it on, but one spring day in 2013, on a 50 minute flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles -- one I'd taken dozens, if not hundreds, of times before, without ever having a problem -- I found myself hyperventilating during takeoff, then gripping my armrests through the light bumps of turbulence, utterly convinced we were going to crash. The smiling flight attendants and very standard pilot announcements from the cockpit, letting us know it was just some normal air pockets, nothing to worry about, but we should keep our seat belts fastened, did nothing to soothe my catastrophizing mind.<br />
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Overhearing the whimpers I was attempting to stifle, the woman sitting in front of me turned around and gently offered her hand to squeeze, and a Xanax. I accepted both, and felt slightly better as the drug took affect, but I was embarrassed, and the chemically-induced fog stayed with me for longer than I liked. I knew I needed to find a better solution.<br />
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On subsequent flights, I tried box breathing, meditation, valerian root, and an app with a recording that is supposed to calm you down, all without success. Not only was it upsetting to feel so afraid of plummeting to my death for the duration of my flight, it was also humiliating to lose it in front of strangers with the misfortune of sitting next to me. Every time I booked a flight, no matter how happy I was to be heading to the destination, the days leading up to my departure were filled with dread.<br />
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Then, on an early morning flight to New York last winter, I took my seat next to an older woman in a bright orange skirt suit, full makeup, her nails jewel-toned talons.<br />
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"Good morning! Are you headed to New York for work or pleasure? Me, I'm going to see my daughter and her family. They live in Brooklyn."<br />
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"Work," I responded, as it became clear to me that this woman was going to want to talk. She pulled out her iPhone, and showed me photos of her daughter and grandchildren. I did my best to appear calm as it hit me that I was going to have to handle her chatter in addition to my usual fear of flying. I tried to simultaneously breathe and nod at her blather about her daughter's job, what their plans for the week were, and how the weather back east would be.<br />
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As the plane took off and hit a few air pockets, I felt the usual drop in my stomach and feelings of unease. The woman paused her story when she noticed I was clenching the ends of the armrests, and holding my breath.<br />
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"Oh sweetie, are you scared?"<br />
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"Sorry, I just have a hard time with flying," I whispered. I just wanted to get through this--the last thing I wanted was to have a conversation with this stranger about it.<br />
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"Listen, the way I see it," she told me, "if this plane is going down, holding onto your armrests isn't going to save you. There's literally nothing you can do about it. Besides, when it's your time, it's your time. "<br />
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As she went back to talking about her plans with daughter, I played her words back in my head. As callous as her advice had sounded, she hit on something I had somehow missed: there was, in fact <i>nothing I could do</i>. Because, as crazy as it sounds, I realized in that moment that, on some level, I had believed my fretting about crashing to be way of taking action and control. Just as I believed the worrying I did back on the ground was. Holding my breath, gripping the seat, curling into myself -- part of me believed it was actually making me safer.<br />
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As she continued talking, I made the choice to unclench my body and relax in my seat, leaning into the bumps of the plane turbulence, repeating to myself, <i>there is nothing I can do</i>. And the most amazing thing happened: I actually started to feel better. My breathing steadied, my pounding heart slowed. Suddenly the self-imposed burden of keeping the plane in the air with my mind was lifted.<br />
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The woman kept up her chatter until I found a moment during a brief pause to politely tell her I was going to listen to some music on my phone. She nodded, and I slipped my headphones in my ears, and turned on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRGRKMWEe-c">Sam Cooke</a>. The plane continued to shake with turbulence, but still, I felt myself surrender. Because even though i was hurtling above the earth in what was basically a very aerodynamic canoe with wings, I wasn't in charge of any of it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-61476000616501830762016-09-26T15:48:00.000-07:002016-09-26T16:36:48.249-07:00how to pray when you don't believe in god<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Most of the time I am pretty sure there is a God, or at least some kind of order to the universe. Most days, it just seems impossible that we are pointlessly existing here on Earth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But there are days, more and more of them lately, when my ability to believe is compromised. News headlines about children buried alive in Aleppo, too many police shootings of unarmed Black men to count, earthquakes that devastate communities, all lead my belief to wane. I ask the questions we all ask: how can a good and just God, the one I learned about as a child in Hebrew school, allow so much evil into the world? If God is the reason I have such a good life, then why is that same God allowing so many other people to suffer?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't know how to make sense of any of it. And as I prepare to spend a whole lot of time in synagogue when Rosh Hashanah begins the Jewish High Holy Days next week, I've been feeling increasingly uneasy about how I will enter into all those hours of prayer. While every year I look forward to the ritual of coming together with my community, uniting in song, and sharing special meals (or, in the case of Yom Kippur, uniting in our day-long hunger), I can't help but wonder: if my belief is fractured, is there even a point to my prayers? W<span style="background-color: white;">ithout steadfast conviction, aren't prayers simply expressions of one's desires, fears and intentions? Isn't that just an exercise in selfish ego?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And yet, I cannot deny that expressing intentions is activating in itself. When I take inventory of my desires and needs, I feel motivated to make choices that help make them a reality. When I think about what I am grateful for, I feel happier and more able to face challenges (<a href="http://www.newsweek.com/5-scientifically-proven-benefits-gratitude-398582">a phenomenon that has been scientifically proven</a>). When I lean into the feeling of awe that quickens my breath when I see a mountain or the ocean, or that first glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge when I exit the <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/news/article/Robin-Williams-tunnel-officially-gets-new-signs-6864015.php">Robin Williams Tunnel</a>, I feel the rush of connecting to something much bigger than myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is a Jewish concept called <i>kavanah</i>, which is translated as "intention" or "direction of the heart." It's typically used to describe the fervor with which one should pray. But I wonder if, for purposes of this dilemma, I could think about kavanah in a more literal sense: as actual intention. Because even when I don't feel the passion for God that kavanah is meant to refer to, I can always set an intention.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So maybe this year, when the initial freshness of the service starts to fade, and I find myself growing bored and questioning the purpose of praying to the concept of a God I'm not completely at peace with, I will try to remember that the power of prayer doesn't have to be as literal as an old man in the sky hearing my requests and granting them, like an oil lamp genie. For those moments, when I struggle to believe in that which I cannot see or understand, I will try to focus instead on the things I <i>can </i>see, <i>can</i> touch, <i>can</i> feel.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Maybe then, my belief will start to flutter back into grasp. Or maybe it won't. But either way, my prayers will indeed have power.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-87907714124579366432015-09-17T17:50:00.001-07:002015-09-22T08:22:19.533-07:00fair fight<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UbrOxsYcy0qmJm6gzLP-CmEvUG4Xw29njjvBP4OSzPzU_a_97ETXyLb-KlYANyVj_QV_L_kSpKmrlJde2sBgrhBp4DvBTIK3blQyBOPRsmHbLlyy6TU4nRzbaL_2Wfq7RjLcJ-P_NoRF/s1600/vector-drawing-duel-two-ancient-boxers-30282415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UbrOxsYcy0qmJm6gzLP-CmEvUG4Xw29njjvBP4OSzPzU_a_97ETXyLb-KlYANyVj_QV_L_kSpKmrlJde2sBgrhBp4DvBTIK3blQyBOPRsmHbLlyy6TU4nRzbaL_2Wfq7RjLcJ-P_NoRF/s320/vector-drawing-duel-two-ancient-boxers-30282415.jpg" width="320" /></a>If I had the sort of relationship with my ex-boyfriends where we got together every so often to sift through our respective memories of the past, attempting to more fully understand them, so as to apply whatever gleanable knowledge to our current lives, I would take them out for a beer (individually, of course--taking them all out at once seems weird), and apologize for how awful I was to fight with when I was younger.<br />
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Really, I was terrible. I was dramatic in the style of a CW teen soap opera. I sobbed. I yelled. I accused. I slammed down the phone only to immediately hit re-dial over and over again, until I was met with an answer. I demanded attention, and the less of it I got, the louder I became. Ultimately, I didn't care what the person on the other side of the fence needed--I just wanted to win. But even when I got my way, I never really felt like I had won anything.</div>
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The older I get, the more I have begun to see fighting as less combative, and more as a shared determination to figure out a problem. We settle in, going back and forth, conducting an archaeological dig of every crevice of our conflict, until we both feel resolved. We may be on opposite sides of an issue, but we are aligned in our determination to get to the bottom of it--to fight for the relationship. </div>
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It's hard to try not to be defensive; to apologize when you're still angry, to stay open and connected when you would prefer to shut the other person out, fold yourself into a ball, and sulk. But the more I learn to tolerate the discomfort and stay present, the more I have begun to reap the benefits. After a good argument, I feel like I know the other person, and myself, in a deeper way, and I'm left with good, useful intel about how he and I both operate. It leaves me feeling like I know more of him and, therefore, have more of him to love.</div>
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Fighting fair means being honest, loving, respectful, and thorough. It means pushing the other person to communicate what he needs, and pushing yourself to hear and receive it. It means holding back the impulse to be unkind at the same time as you tell the real truth. It means remembering you are both good, kind people who are invested in figuring it out. </div>
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It is not easy, but nothing worth fighting for ever is.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com211tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-90191065413323872382015-07-31T13:06:00.003-07:002015-07-31T20:19:42.725-07:00test drive<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjMHRpw7_9zvgLLEj1KX4GfGhac4HF-PaaYpddZQCem32x1quka8rZ4G9Kc0-dDvQDEibFDe2ApCTULM3BMECbxKe7kGjqqZFszCXXNNZ-pV5BGPdoqL7Naot6wmn1EQDKYo2yqs5_5LYm/s1600/1959+Cadillac+Eldorado+Seville.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjMHRpw7_9zvgLLEj1KX4GfGhac4HF-PaaYpddZQCem32x1quka8rZ4G9Kc0-dDvQDEibFDe2ApCTULM3BMECbxKe7kGjqqZFszCXXNNZ-pV5BGPdoqL7Naot6wmn1EQDKYo2yqs5_5LYm/s400/1959+Cadillac+Eldorado+Seville.jpg" width="400" /></a>When I was seventeen I started dating my first real boyfriend. For three sweet months, I floated through life in a daze of love, lust, and teenage hormones. News of this quickly traveled south to Los Angeles, where my grandparents lived, and one day I received an envelope from my Panta (my paternal grandfather, named for my inability to pronounce "grandpa" as a toddler), containing an article he clipped from an automobile magazine.<br />
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<i>Test Driving a Car Before Buying it is No Longer Necessary</i>, the article proclaimed. The piece made the argument that if a car fulfills your basic requirements, a professional inspection is all you to know whether it's worth your money--no need to take it for a spin before committing. Paper-clipped to the article was a note from Panta that read, "I heard you have a boyfriend now, so I wanted to send you some car advice. Love, Panta."<br />
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Since the only car in my life at the time was my parents' 1986 Volvo station wagon, it became clear to me that his intention wasn't to educate me on the art of buying a car, but rather to suggest, rather humorously, that I consider not having sex with my boyfriend until marriage--i.e.: skipping the test drive. I called him to thank him for the article, and told him that, though nothing had happened yet, if it did, I wouldn't be telling him. "I only ever bought one car!" he told me. "And she was the only one for me!" This exchange became one of his favorite stories to tell.<br />
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Sixteen years and several boyfriends later, I finally found the car I want to spend the rest of my life driving. Despite Panta's suggestion against it, I did ample field research to eventually find it. Like a twenty-first century Goldilocks, I test-drove everything from pick-up trucks, to Maseratis, to Subarus, Priuses (Priuii?), and even a couple of skateboards.<br />
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Test driving eventually shifted in meaning. At first it really was primarily about figuring out sex. As I grew older, I began to learn the value of test-driving a relationship--feeling for myself where my connection with a potential partner drove smoothly, and where it could maybe have used a better turning radius. With every spin around the block, I learned how to better gauge if a relationship seemed like a good fit--or if maybe it was time to put on the brakes. My driving skills got better and better.<br />
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By the time I met Evan, I had done my fair share of driving. I had learned to recognize worn tires and crappy paint jobs, as well as great cars that just weren't right for me before I even turned on the gas. Evan and I took our time test driving our relationship, gingerly approaching inevitable sharp turns and bumpy roads together, catching our breath each time we came out of them OK. Eventually the bumps and turns became easier to predict, and we learned to trust one another to navigate our way out of them. It became clear to us both that this was how we wanted to drive for the rest of our lives.<br />
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I'm thankful for every other car I test drove, though. With each one, I became a better driver, and from each one, I learned another rule of the road. And even though I didn't follow my Panta's advice, I'm pretty sure he would have loved the car I ended up with.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-64194817896201592792015-01-03T18:12:00.001-08:002015-01-04T11:05:24.844-08:00swing your partner <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjxMlymQuavTM49Dsf6tyTb8qKIUIhV8GS7JGpjl4SFj0iYaXX2NypdM1AnqJmwJsYap4vpFa09fkP4AFgp8mEK_UZGTZTU8pAhkUPuPv-yZimc12C2T6mm9E4yoP49Vm1rKVMzrATgBc_/s1600/984262_10152655393716317_792353944837440928_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjxMlymQuavTM49Dsf6tyTb8qKIUIhV8GS7JGpjl4SFj0iYaXX2NypdM1AnqJmwJsYap4vpFa09fkP4AFgp8mEK_UZGTZTU8pAhkUPuPv-yZimc12C2T6mm9E4yoP49Vm1rKVMzrATgBc_/s1600/984262_10152655393716317_792353944837440928_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>My <a href="http://www.gabimoskowitz.com/2014/10/yom-kippur.html">father</a> taught me how to dance.<br />
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He would play music from the 50's in our living room, hold my hands in a partner dancing pose, and teach how me to keep the rhythm with my feet, while waiting for his cues for each move. On his say-so, we would spin, twirl, and dip to the sounds of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Best-Doo-Wop-Uptempo/dp/B00000348O">The Best of Doo-Wop Uptempo</a>.<br />
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Learning to follow was a challenge for me. Since early childhood, I have always been a little bit anxious. And, when you're anxious, one of the best ways to soothe yourself is to keep yourself apprised of what's happening next. This is not so easy when your dance partner is the one deciding your next move.<br />
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It took <a href="http://www.stylefordorks.com/">Evan</a> and me some time to get our dancing rhythm down. He is an excellent leader, but, in the beginning, I found myself fighting to lead, if, for no reason other than to soothe my anxiety about what our next move was. I had to manually override my desire to take over, driven by the fear that I might fail to follow effectively, embarrassing myself by spinning out instead of in, or dipping prematurely.<br />
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Evan is a really good dancer. His embrace is gentle, but secure, and he holds my gaze as he twirls me away, before pulling me back in. With every spin around the dance floor, I've learned to trust his ability to navigate things. When he asks me to dance, I no longer feel like I have to choose between fighting for the steering wheel and giving up all control. It's something we do together.<br />
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On New Years Day, while on vacation in Austin, Texas, we went dancing at a famous Honky Tonk club in East Austin, <a href="http://www.thewhitehorseaustin.com/">The White Horse</a>. We were surrounded by intimidatingly talented couples who wore Wranglers and cowboy boots, and knew the involved multi-step dances to each song, but we decided to give it a try anyway. I had a purse with me, and didn't want to set it down, so I kept it on as we headed out to the middle of the floor. The music was unfamiliar, my bag was cumbersome, and we were tired and still a little hungover from the previous night's festivities, but still, we danced. Together, we found the rhythm, we managed to work around my purse, and we moved to the music in sync with one another.<br />
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And there, it occurred to me that this is what being together is all about: sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow. You work around each other's baggage. You communicate. You catch each other. You hold hands. And even when it's scary, you find a way to see the unknown as an exciting adventure ahead, rather than something to fear.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-76726109551963769992014-12-17T10:54:00.002-08:002015-01-03T17:48:19.680-08:00things i know (this week, anyway) #34<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifHv2vy23swxcCJYR1TvTYv_tceEBLpc02EoM9oD7upOw1ZeHhp1QYhOpAqqDX_rwsEG7dUAKHXiWSf-gg4d0b7QS2ucIXG5QZn6zM9NH4lK93VNy0NVyl0MtNZeSLza81uTm0sQLCXqpG/s1600/resampled_3__runaway-shopping-cart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifHv2vy23swxcCJYR1TvTYv_tceEBLpc02EoM9oD7upOw1ZeHhp1QYhOpAqqDX_rwsEG7dUAKHXiWSf-gg4d0b7QS2ucIXG5QZn6zM9NH4lK93VNy0NVyl0MtNZeSLza81uTm0sQLCXqpG/s1600/resampled_3__runaway-shopping-cart.jpg" height="217" width="320" /></a><br />
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- For better or for worse, no one is ever truly, permanently gone from your life.<br />
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- Return your shopping cart to its keeper instead of shoving it between two parked cars. It takes 30 seconds and it will make someone's job a little bit easier. </div>
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- If it can be made with a white potato, I will try to make it with a sweet potato</div>
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- Step-counting apps bring out my inner obsessive-compulsive, leading me to walk loops around my small apartment in my pajamas: "Sorry, honey. I'm at 9,925 steps for today, and I can't get into bed until I hit 10,000." </div>
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- In this everything-is-available-on-the-internet age, we so often forget the importance of good etiquette. Web-based entrepreneurs (all entrepreneurs, really) put a lot of time and energy into building their social network following. As such, if you would like one to help you promote something, make a connection for you, or teach you how to improve your own digital content, you should ask nicely, and be sure to touch on the fact that you realize the value of their time and digital real estate, and would be very grateful for their help. You should also be willing to (or at least be prepared to be asked to) pay for it. If you don't treat their work with respect, why should they help you out? No matter the industry, it remains true that there really is no such thing as a free lunch.</div>
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- In this time of conflict, social injustice, outrage, and protest, it strikes me that one of the things the world needs most right now is good listeners.<br />
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- If you think you don't like tofu, that is probably because you aren't cooking it right. To make really good, crispy tofu, start with firm or extra-firm tofu, then press it in a clean dish towel, to remove excess liquid. Cut it into cubes or strips, then fry it in a decent amount of oil (2 tablespoons in a medium frying pan should do the trick), over medium-high heat. Let it develop a nice, thick crust on the exterior of once side, then flip it and do the same on the other side. Once it's cooked, drain it on paper towels, then salt it lightly and use it immediately, however you like. Properly-cooked tofu is a crisp, toothsome delight. Learn to do it well and you'll never look back.</div>
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- It's weirdly intimate to wear a mud facial masque in front of your partner. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-16225192177450244702014-10-02T22:25:00.001-07:002014-10-03T09:29:17.889-07:00yom kippurWhen I was a child, I loved going to Yom Kippur services at our synagogue for one very specific reason: I got to sit next to my father for an entire day.<br />
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I was minimally interested in the service itself. Rather, I relished the experience of being close to him all day long, running my fingers through his <i>tzitzit</i> (the strings on the corners of a Jewish prayer shawl), twisting them into braids. Just before the service started, he would lean over to me in the pew beside him and, as we are instructed to do on Yom Kippur, ask for my forgiveness: "Gab, if I have done anything in the past year to hurt you, I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me."<br />
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"I forgive you, Daddy. Do you forgive me?" I'd ask, breathing in his freshly-shaven cheeks, scented with aftershave I bought him for Father's Day at Bath and Body Works.<br />
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"Of course I do, sweetie."<br />
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In that moment, everything would be right in the world. And there would be no place else I'd want to be. For me, he was the conduit of an entire religion, culture and people. Sitting next to him in his just-pressed suit, listening to his recitation of the prayers, using the Ashkenazi pronunciation of <i>Adonoy </i>instead of <i>Adonai</i> (meaning God), just as his own father had, was the closest to God I had ever felt.<br />
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Until I was twenty-nine, it was the only place I wanted to be for Yom Kippur.<br />
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Almost three years ago, I fell in love with a man who also attends Yom Kippur services. In fact, he attends services, colloquially known as <i>shul, </i>nearly every week. In our first year together, I felt ready to be with him for High Holy Day services, here in San Francisco at his progressive but traditional shul, instead of with my family at their Reform temple, an hour outside the city.<br />
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In lieu of a traditional <i>mechitza </i>(a curtain separating men and women during prayer), my boyfriend's shul has a men's section, a women's section and a mixed middle section. He is a longtime <i>davener</i> (pray-er) in the men's section, and so I found a seat for myself in the mixed section. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the service, and by how good it felt to pray surrounded by people I knew and liked. What I wasn't prepared for was how much it made my heart ache to spend a whole day in synagogue without my father by my side.<br />
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Yet, tomorrow evening begins the third Yom Kippur since we began dating, and I will continue to attend shul in San Francisco with my boyfriend, where the services are nice but still not entirely comfortable for me, instead of at my hometown synagogue, where I know all of the prayer melodies, the Hebrew is transliterated, and I can sit with my family, next to my father, as I did for so many years. But despite my longing for my family, our San Francisco shul is where I want to be.<br />
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And with each year, it's gotten a little bit easier. The prayers have become more familiar; I love the collective, inviting spirit of the community. I have found friends and a place for myself within it. And on Yom Kippur, in the early evening, when I start to get bored or tired, or too hungry to focus on the service, I'll slip out for a few minutes, walk down the block and call my parents to wish them a <i>gut yontif </i>(good holiday).<br />
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When my dad gets on the phone, he'll tell me, as he always has, "Gab, if I have done anything in the past year to hurt you, I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me."<br />
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And, just for a moment, it will be as if he is right beside me in a pew, smelling of Bath and Body Works cologne and toothpaste, with his arm around me.<br />
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Of course I'll forgive him. And I'll hope he can forgive me, too.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-3336121563291423482014-07-21T18:37:00.002-07:002014-07-21T18:37:51.604-07:00things i know (this week, anyway) #33<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVJLUYQEbhuSjCg3TZxIWjFEatQBpo3fNtyTlx-fNlu0UP3yYOLgo-O20e2A5MCMmm8yttmxZZPfHBqy9eu8CxhakQ1xXh_IPK5VtTc9sH6oUNieRDguVva9PCS_OB_bVLIHAjmU6GgOC/s1600/Sleeping-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVJLUYQEbhuSjCg3TZxIWjFEatQBpo3fNtyTlx-fNlu0UP3yYOLgo-O20e2A5MCMmm8yttmxZZPfHBqy9eu8CxhakQ1xXh_IPK5VtTc9sH6oUNieRDguVva9PCS_OB_bVLIHAjmU6GgOC/s1600/Sleeping-7.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>- In addition to its karmic virtue, and the fact that it's just the right thing to do, the world is very, very small, so be as kind as possible to everyone you meet.<br />
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- Emily Gould's <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Friendship-A-Novel-Emily-Gould/dp/0374158614/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top">Friendship</a> </i>is the best book I've read this year.<br />
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- Cats do LITERALLY NOTHING BUT SLEEP all day long.<br />
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- There are few things that make a person feel older like the moment when someone whose diaper you have changed adds you on Facebook.<br />
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- Arguing with people on the internet is like arguing with a racist grandparent: nobody's stance gets changed and you just feel pissed off for the rest of the day.<br />
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- What fairytales and rom-coms don't tell you is that a huge component of romantic love is making space for the other person to be him/herself.<br />
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- I don't think I will ever get used to seeing my cookbooks in bookstores or commercials for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eI-tGmHtwbU">Young & Hungry</a>. It's weird every time.<br />
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- Net Neutrality is very important. <a href="https://www.battleforthenet.com/">Read up on it</a>.<br />
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- The easiest way to step up your culinary game is to use an extra virgin olive oil that actually tastes good. My pick for a budget-friendly bottle is <a href="http://www.traderjoes.com/fearless-flyer/article.asp?article_id=1644">this one</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-63092062024443869752014-05-26T10:57:00.001-07:002014-05-26T10:57:57.540-07:00things i know (this week, anyway) #32<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPC0Kd_gs8x00oCKPS_A_Krxv0uuQpIBhNtDAJeNwIdMdIxJeFjMwC81wRgBRepwZcLWM5GROCazUa8vk6a-oP8H3pr2JK4s5Zz6jI_7HCMNtXwZRzll6ssfWn9k7UzFj-oQm-ULw6MEv/s1600/troll-man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPC0Kd_gs8x00oCKPS_A_Krxv0uuQpIBhNtDAJeNwIdMdIxJeFjMwC81wRgBRepwZcLWM5GROCazUa8vk6a-oP8H3pr2JK4s5Zz6jI_7HCMNtXwZRzll6ssfWn9k7UzFj-oQm-ULw6MEv/s1600/troll-man.jpg" height="276" width="400" /></a></div>
- Taking criticism well is an art, and one which I am still trying to master.<br />
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- The above stated, it's important to know whose criticism to write off.</div>
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- As it turns out, there is no better preparation for using a teleprompter than reading books aloud to children. It requires exactly the same skill set.</div>
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- In case you didn't hear, <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/the-switch/wp/2014/05/23/ebay-says-hackers-didnt-get-any-financial-information-but-its-data-breach-is-still-bad-news-for-consumers/">you should change your eBay password</a>.</div>
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- The need to end the gun violence in this country is dire. Let's start by reexamining the state of gun control and support of the mentally ill. And, most importantly, let's continue the conversation until we start to see progress. Though we may sit on opposite sides of the subject, we can all agree that too many people have died. </div>
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- An important part of being a freelancer is reminding your client (nicely but firmly) when they still owe you a check.<br />
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- Anonymous internet commenters are the inside-the-car road ragers of the new Millenium. </div>
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- Having your hair and makeup professionally done and your clothing professionally styled is a lovely glimpse into how you are capable of looking. At the end of the day, it requires much more time and energy than I would be willing to devote to my appearance on a daily basis, but it's nice to know it's there. </div>
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- There is a <a href="http://brokeassgourmet.com/articles/brokeass-vegetarian-noodles">noodle dish for everyone</a>. </div>
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- <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/YesAllWomen">#YesAllWomen</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-31910124571052379192014-05-05T20:36:00.002-07:002014-05-06T08:13:51.733-07:00cooking for one<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv8Nmt-a8kkDtlMNxAoFU6U-lYR2KrnC0FL9cr_nV5-hxpEdsAJv51UH8cdFiuMXr0Kmqj_Sa3I86sH98s7XMmW5fIipUIJiCzjwHQxleKcvu6YYGXl5dY2zhI9QNgegXIqeuGeqJmqjEI/s1600/cutting+board+v_+small(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv8Nmt-a8kkDtlMNxAoFU6U-lYR2KrnC0FL9cr_nV5-hxpEdsAJv51UH8cdFiuMXr0Kmqj_Sa3I86sH98s7XMmW5fIipUIJiCzjwHQxleKcvu6YYGXl5dY2zhI9QNgegXIqeuGeqJmqjEI/s1600/cutting+board+v_+small(1).jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a>Of all reasons I've heard from people for why they don't cook, perhaps the the most common one is that they're a party of one.<br />
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"It's just me," they'll say. "Why should I bother when there's no one else eating with me? I can get takeout delivered to my door, and not have to do any prep or wash any dishes." Or worse, they'll make the case for a microwaved frozen dinner.<br />
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There is, of course, a litany of reasons why cooking for oneself is a good thing to do: it's healthier and more cost-effective than the aforementioned options; when you control what goes into your food, you control what goes into your body. Fresh ingredients are not only healthier, but also usually cheaper than take-out or frozen meals. Those are valid points. But they're not the main reason I do it.<br />
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For me, cooking for myself is one of the most deliciously indulgent, deeply satisfying pleasures available. It's "me time" in the best possible sense: I get to cook exactly what I feel like eating. I can season my food precisely to my liking. I get to take my time chopping, basting and roasting, not worrying about anyone else's schedule or level of hangry-ness. I can sip wine while I stir, and listen to whatever music I please. I can set a beautiful table and enjoy my dinner formally, or I can eat on the couch, while I watch <a href="http://www.hulu.com/law-and-order-special-victims-unit">Law & Order: SVU</a>--it's totally up to me. After dinner, I can sit at the table and read for an hour, or, if I feel like it, I can abandon the dishes and go take a bath.<br />
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Don't get me wrong, I love cooking for others. Most nights, I cook dinner for <a href="http://stylefordorks.com/">Evan</a>, and it's my favorite part of the day. But, on the nights we don't eat together, I relish my time in the kitchen alone. The importance of the quality of my dinner doesn't diminish because I'm the only one eating it.<br />
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I hope to have a family someday, and I hope to cook them incredible food every night. But I also hope that, occasionally, I'll find myself on my own for dinner. I'll pour myself a glass of Pinot, turn on some <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5RDUYOSpH9w">Smokey Robinson</a>, and chop, stir, and nurture my body and soul with a special meal made just for me.<br />
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Why <i>wouldn't</i> I bother?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-17814636125080720512014-04-29T15:28:00.005-07:002019-03-13T14:46:31.543-07:00things i know (this week, anyway) #31- Smoothies are just about the best thing ever. Need breakfast in a hurry? Better make a smoothie. Worried you won't get a chance to eat as many fresh fruits and vegetables as you should today? Sounds like you need a smoothie, my friend. Maybe add some kale for good measure.<br />
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- From the time we are little, girls are instructed to always be nice at all costs. But as women, we must remember that always being nice is just too expensive sometimes.<br />
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- Even when you know you're right, being in conflict is hard.<br />
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- If you insist on reading the comments, take them with several grains of salt, and possibly a shot of tequila.<br />
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- Spend the extra dollar or two and buy yourself a high-quality, good-tasting bottle of extra virgin olive oil. <a href="http://www.traderjoes.com/">Trader Joe's</a> <a href="http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702303382004579129730232996324">California Estate Olive Oil</a><u> </u>($5.99) is hands-down the best olive oil available for the price. It's equally good for cooking as it is for salad dressings and bread dipping.<br />
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- There is no one right way to eat. Pay attention to how food makes you feel, stop when you're full, and get plenty of exercise. Everyone is different, so figure out what works for you and stay true to that. Your diet is nobody's business but your own.<br />
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- It's not the whole point, but it feels amazing to be acknowledged for hard work.<br />
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- Learn to love your grocery store bulk section. It's great for when you need a lot of something (no packaging means the product you take home is much cheaper), or a little (why buy a twenty-four-ounce package of walnuts when you only need a quarter cup of them for a recipe?). Buying in bulk means you can buy exactly how much of something you need, for the lowest price possible. It's worth the annoying twelve seconds it takes to wrap a twist-tie around a plastic bag and write the product code on it.<br />
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- There's nothing like the look of relief on a barista's face when you say, "Just a regular cup of coffee, please."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-79546613411691362402014-03-12T17:48:00.000-07:002014-03-12T22:55:32.967-07:00a letter to my 22-year-old selfDearest Gabi,<br />
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Oh, you beautiful, wonderful, brilliant girl. I wish I could travel back in time and squeeze you and hug you and tell you all about the amazing adventures you're going to have. I know things are very uncertain right now. You're about to graduate from college, but beyond that you have no real plan. Real life seems both light years away and scarily fast-approaching. </div>
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People like to say that your twenties are the best time of your life, and I'm here to tell you (and I think you already know) that they're absolutely wrong. Your thirties are going to be <i>way</i> better than your twenties. Because despite what <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgFeZr5ptV8&feature=kp">Taylor Swift</a> says (not that you have any idea what she says--if you're 22, she's in, like, third grade), being twenty-two actually kind of sucks. Especially for someone like you.</div>
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You like to have a plan. You like to know what comes next. You like to have both feet on the ground when you decide forge ahead. You've been that way since you were little: brave, but careful. And, unfortunately, it's almost impossible to live that way when you're twenty-two. If you want to get anywhere, you're going to have to take some risks.<br />
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You'll worry that your life is on a different track from your parents when they were your age. Your mother may have married your father at twenty-five and given birth to you at twenty-seven, but you're not going to do things that way. It's not that you're opposed to a life like that, it's just that you'll find you have a lot to do before you get there.<br />
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You'll try on different careers, moving on from some, but never fully discarding any of them. There are ways in which you'll always be a teacher, an event planner, a caterer, and more. You'll try many different things, but at the end of the day, it will all come down to words and food, and how you can use those two mediums to say what you have to say. It might not be immediately clear just how you'll turn those things into a career, but trust me, you will, and it will amount to more than you ever could have imagined. Stay the course.<br />
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There are going to be people who tell you you're not good enough. Not smart enough. Not talented enough. Not beautiful enough. Not thin enough. Let the pain they cause thicken your skin, but don't carry them with you; they don't deserve your attention. You have much more important things to focus on.<br />
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There will be men. So many men. So many completely-wrong-but-totally-right-in-the-moment men. There will be much older men. Men who have children. Men who kind of <i>are </i>children. Men with wanderlust. Men with a lust that wanders away from you. Men with no ambition. Men who aspire to run the world. Men you don't actually like very much, but think you should go out with anyway.<br />
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Some of them will hurt your heart, but I'm happy to report that none will succeed in breaking it.<br />
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And after more than a few runs of this, you'll think that maybe you're done with dating for awhile. Maybe you have better things to do. Of course, it will be at this exact moment that you'll meet the best man you've ever known.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GtSCVUoqav4">Buddy Holly</a> will be wrong: falling in love won't be easy. It will be scary and messy and complicated, but also exhilarating and beautiful and deeply satisfying. It will force you to be vulnerable in a way you've never been before. You won't complete one another, because you're both already complete, but you will make each other's lives better by being in them. You'll find yourself braiding challah every Friday and texting him photos of the cat. He'll bring you flowers every week and learn how to use Twitter. You'll figure out what it means to share your lives without absorbing one another's identities. And you will be happier than you ever knew possible.<br />
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So hang in there, kid. Things get better, I promise. You have adventure, success and love to look forward to. And that's just in the next decade.<br />
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All my love,<br />
<br />
Gabi</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-26908849741404129382014-03-06T15:56:00.002-08:002014-03-06T15:56:14.925-08:00things i know (this week, anyway) #30<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOQKZ7gxsZHQ7uBJ-MYPeFKZuvhHGM6muJMOSYpzms4-dv-Cv9w5IlrYYGOB5K93p1pTAyJI9cti5IfQRfolcCPTmhexw6C2KkwsA6xHHDHSuHPyaFEeZVzAXKREfqiew4FjCDXUgp17x/s1600/shirataki.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOQKZ7gxsZHQ7uBJ-MYPeFKZuvhHGM6muJMOSYpzms4-dv-Cv9w5IlrYYGOB5K93p1pTAyJI9cti5IfQRfolcCPTmhexw6C2KkwsA6xHHDHSuHPyaFEeZVzAXKREfqiew4FjCDXUgp17x/s1600/shirataki.jpg" height="174" width="320" /></a>- Re-reading <a href="http://www.gabimoskowitz.com/2008/07/burrito-love.html">something you wrote long</a> ago is a wonderful way to invoke deep tenderness for the young person you once were.<br />
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- It's totally OK to want (and ask) to be taken care of.<br />
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- Here's a quick and easy way to improve your life in no time: identify the assholes, and then immediately stop listening to what they tell you.<br />
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- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fuao5wJ24Co">You don't put a bra [or yoga pants] in a dryer</a>!<br />
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- Like noodles? Try occasionally swapping them out for shirataki or kelp noodles instead. They're a healthful alternative, and if you cook them well, you'll hardly notice the difference.<br />
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- Fresh turmeric root is an incredible natural headache reliever. Puree it into a smoothie or grate it into hot water with ginger and lemon for a tisane. Its anti-inflammatory properties will make you feel better quickly.<br />
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- Put a little bit of coconut milk in your tomato soup. Seriously, just do it. You'll thank me.<br />
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- Writing is a job, and I don't work for free.<br />
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- <a href="http://eatwell.csaware.com/store/">My CSA box</a> is changing my life. I highly recommend signing up for one today.<br />
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- Anytime the internet promises you "this one weird trick..." you should avoid clicking the link.<br />
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- Fairytale love is not real, but real, actual love is infinitely more satisfying.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-71663279893468152132014-02-21T15:14:00.003-08:002014-02-21T15:26:52.635-08:0010 reasons you should be blogging<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9sJ2zQdsYQ4aRu9KvOPTweYduu7PFCwygrDo8yRyFnLCkgSCgqTvGg3VvX88OBIhozci4d2gB9acSScp0eICQizl5GPxCEKkrAm5-A-L5MeIDMEDSalI6LUKGsr8khfQ328qKc6GjZf8V/s1600/Blog-graphic-from-Istock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9sJ2zQdsYQ4aRu9KvOPTweYduu7PFCwygrDo8yRyFnLCkgSCgqTvGg3VvX88OBIhozci4d2gB9acSScp0eICQizl5GPxCEKkrAm5-A-L5MeIDMEDSalI6LUKGsr8khfQ328qKc6GjZf8V/s1600/Blog-graphic-from-Istock.jpg" height="160" width="320" /></a>1. <b>It will make you a better writer. </b>Having the knowledge that you're writing for an audience (yes, your mom counts as an audience) in the back of your head tends to result in a better overall composition.<br />
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2. That said, <b>it's a great way to get comfortable with making mistakes somewhat publicly</b>. One of the most wonderful things about blogging platforms is that they are living--and edit-able. Unlike glossy magazines, there's a scrappy, thrown-together quality to blogs, and it's totally OK to fix errors after you post. It's also OK to not fix them.<br />
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3. Have an idea, product, company or talent? <b>Creating original, engaging blog content is a great way to make what's yours stand out on the internet.</b> Blog about related topics and what's going on in your field, and people will find their way to you.<br />
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4. <b>It's a good way to thicken your skin. </b>When <a href="http://www.amazon.com/BrokeAss-Gourmet-Cookbook-Gabi-Moskowitz/dp/0983859515/ref=pd_sim_sbs_b_1">my first book</a> came out, I posted an image of the cover on my blog. This prompted someone in Nebraska to write me a lengthy email about how slutty I look in the photo. This stung for a second, but mostly, it made me laugh. Who has time to call harmless food bloggers out about their cleavage?! Well, this woman did, apparently. I hope it made her very happy to put me in my slutty place. But seriously, it was a great reminder that there will always be haters, trolls and general assholes on the internet who will gleefully tear you apart and call you names, no matter what you do. Pay them no mind--they're mean because they're unhappy.<br />
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5. <b>It can lead to bigger things</b>. It led me to <a href="http://citypaper.com/eat/brokeass">newspaper syndication</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gabi-Moskowitz/e/B007OXCQ5S/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1">2 cookbooks</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2084712/fullcredits">a sitcom inspired by my life</a>. It's also brought me paid speaking engagements, freelance writing, workshops and teaching opportunities.<br />
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6. <b>It's amazing for improving creativity flow. </b>I am often asked if I am afraid I'll run out of ideas. For my first couple of years of blogging, the answer was "Yes. Terrified." But five years later, I show no signs of running out of ideas, and I really believe it's because creativity begets more creativity. The more I write, the more ideas I have. It's like exercising a muscle at the gym: the more reps you do, the stronger you become, and hence, the more reps you are able to do.<br />
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7. <b>Reading your blog has the potential to help someone feel less alone</b>. Write honest, genuine posts, and your words really will affect their readers. Blogs foster connection, and that helps make the world a better place.<br />
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8. It's not the whole point, but <b>you can make passive income blogging</b>. Work with a <a href="http://www.saymedia.com/">great ad company</a> to monetize your posts. Get syndicated by a newspaper or bigger online media source. <a href="https://affiliate-program.amazon.com/gp/associates/join/landing/main.html">Set up an Amazon store on your blog</a>. It's hard to make a whole living doing this, but you can make a nice chunk of spending cash without doing anything other than setting it up and continuing to blog.<br />
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9. <b>It's like an audition for a book. </b>The publishing world is changing these days, and more and more bloggers are getting book deals after publishers discover them online. If you think about it, it makes sense: A blog is essentially a living record of a) your writing skills, b) your thoughts and ideas, and c) your ability to create an audience for yourself. Publishers want to publish books by people who already have an audience, and successful bloggers are just that.<br />
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10. <b>Your thoughts are interesting and deserve to be shared. </b>Just trust me on this one. Even if you don't think it's true, I guarantee there's someone out there (likely a lot of people) who is interested in your thoughts. Think of a blogging platform as your path to finding and connecting with them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-43630390655993189272014-01-25T14:21:00.002-08:002014-01-25T14:21:36.044-08:00things i know (this week, anyway) #29<div>
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- When conflict arises, try to be conscious of both the <a href="http://evanwolkenstein.wordpress.com/2014/01/24/reusable-methodologies-macro-micro/">micro and the macro</a>. The socks you always leave on the bathroom floor might seem like nothing more than forgotten footwear to you; to someone else, they may be further evidence of your general lack of regard for the needs of others. </div>
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- Make time to do nothing. </div>
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- Current favorite application of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pizza-Dough-Delicious-Unexpected-Recipes/dp/0988773112/ref=pd_sim_b_1">pizza dough</a>? <a href="http://brokeassgourmet.com/articles/easy-folded-steambuns">Steambuns</a>. Fill with crispy tofu, pulled pork, grilled chicken or fresh avocado. Add hot sauce, pickled veg and eat. </div>
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- <a href="http://www.goop.com/journal/make/15/detox">Obnoxious, elitist reputation though it may have</a>, drinking freshly-juiced fruits and vegetables feels awesome. </div>
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- "Can I pick your brain?" has got to be the worst phrase ever. Both in terms of imagery and the actual ask. </div>
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- If you love to cook, find a partner who loves eating and is happy to wash dishes.</div>
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- Want to add uncommon flavor and texture to noodles, salads and stir-fries? Make caramelized garlic chips: Slice cloves of garlic lengthwise, and fry slowly in vegetable or coconut oil over medium heat, just until they turn light brown and crisp. Drain, salt and use as needed.</div>
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- If something is no longer working, stop doing it. The rest will follow.</div>
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- The fact that <a href="http://jezebel.com/here-are-the-unretouched-images-from-lena-dunhams-vogu-1503336657">Lena Dunham's Vogue photo spread was Photoshopped</a> has nothing to do with the size and shape of her body. <a href="http://www.vogue.com/">Vogue</a> Photoshops photos of people. So do <a href="http://www.cosmopolitan.com/">Cosmo</a>, <a href="http://www.glamour.com/">Glamour</a> and <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/">Vanity Fair</a>. Your little cellulite-hunt did more harm than good, <a href="http://jezebel.com/">Jezebel</a>. </div>
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- The key to success: work your ass off and be a <a href="http://www.gabimoskowitz.com/2011/01/mensch.html">mensch</a> to everyone.</div>
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<i>Photo credit: <a href="http://www.frankenyimages.com/">Frankie Frankeny</a> - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Delicious-Unexpected-Things-Pizza-Dough/dp/0988773112/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1369081051&sr=8-2&keywords=gabi+moskowitz">Pizza Dough: 100 Delicious, Unexpected Recipes</a>.</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171312183309709735.post-74343548452810842612014-01-10T11:50:00.002-08:002014-01-10T11:55:32.117-08:00young & hungry (or, my crazy news)<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You may have seen a few posts in my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/BrokeAss-Gourmet/50394688927" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Facebook</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/BrokeAssGourmet" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Twitter</a> feeds about the<a href="http://www.deadline.com/2014/01/abc-family-picks-up-comedy-pilots-starring-tori-spelling-jennie-garth-emily-osment-to-series/" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">ridiculous, crazy, wild news of a TV show inspired by BrokeAss Gourmet and my adventures in and out of the kitchen</a>. I've had a few requests for an explanation of, um, how the hell <span style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">that</span> happened, so I thought I'd share one in the same place this whole thing started: my blog. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3;">In early 2011, I got an email from an agent at </span><a href="http://www.caa.com/" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-family: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Creative Artists Agency</a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3;">. He loved BrokeAss Gourmet, and wanted to know if I had ever considered doing something with it in the scripted TV realm. Say, a sitcom?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <img alt="" src="http://brokeassgourmet.com/images/1107.jpg" height="275" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;" width="400" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Uh, no. I hadn't considered doing that before.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But he truly thought there was something there. Eventually, he found a few production companies interested in meeting with me. Still in disbelief that anyone would actually think that a show inspired by my life would be something people would want to watch, I flew to LA. My first book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/BrokeAss-Gourmet-Cookbook-Gabi-Moskowitz/dp/0983859515/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1/180-1931662-7232932" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The BrokeAss Gourmet Cookbook</a>, had just come out, so I stuffed a few copies of it into my falling-apart<a href="http://www.target.com/" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Target</a> purse, swiped on some red lipstick, and hoped to be taken at least a little bit seriously.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lo and behold, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/company/co0099776/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">The Tannenbaum Company</a>, creators of CBS' mega-hit, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0369179/?ref_=tt_ov_inf" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Two and a Half Men</a>, loved me. They wanted to get started right away. My agent assured me that this was very, very good. I could not believe it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My disbelief continued, as the Tannenbaum Company brought me back down to Los Angeles to interview writers. In case you've never interviewed someone who is up for the job of writing the TV version of your life, allow me to tell you: it's very surreal. You might even find yourself laughing out loud during the process because you can't believe it's happening.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But then, if you're lucky, the process will lead you to meet a writer whom you just know is the one. When the meeting ends, you won't want him to go. He is <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1177747/?ref_=ttfc_fc_wr1" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Dave Holden</a>. And he was the one for my show. Which, of course, I still couldn't believe was starting to take shape.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><img alt="" src="http://brokeassgourmet.com/images/1105.jpg" height="400" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;" width="393" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dave came to San Francisco to absorb a little bit of BrokeAss Gourmet at the source. He met my family, a few of my friends, and of course, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/nicolebratt/10939536554/in/set-72157637829607685" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Evan</a>. Then he set to work, writing the pilot script.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The pilot went through several iterations. Dave workshopped it with The Tannenbaum Company for weeks until they had something they were truly happy with. The story of a feisty young food blogger named Gabi, who lives in the Mission district in San Francisco and applies for a job as a personal chef to a Zuckerberg-type character. She is klutzy and blunt, but full of heart and aspiration. Dave called the show<span style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;"> Young & Hungry</span>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then, we pitched to the networks. I made <a href="http://brokeassgourmet.com/articles/salted-chocolate-chip-cookies" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Salted Chocolate Chip Cookies</a> and distributed more copies of my <a href="http://www.amazon.com/BrokeAss-Gourmet-Cookbook-Gabi-Moskowitz/dp/0983859515/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1/180-1931662-7232932" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">book</a> to network executives. Then, we waited.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">At first, we didn't hear much, so I banished the possibility of this actually manifesting to the tiny attic in my brain, where unlikely dreams are stored. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But then, something crazy happened. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">While visiting <a href="http://www.wyne.me/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">friends in Tulsa</a>, I got a call from my agent. "It looks like we've got an offer from <a href="http://abcfamily.go.com/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">ABC Family</a>!" he told me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I happen to love ABC Family. <a href="http://abcfamily.go.com/shows/pretty-little-liars" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Pretty Little Liars</a> is my sorry-not-sorry guilty pleasure. They were interested in <span style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">my </span>show?! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And they were. So much so, that they <a href="http://www.deadline.com/2013/08/comedy-starring-tori-spelling-among-three-half-hour-pilot-orders-at-abc-family/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">greenlit a pilot</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2084712/fullcredits?ref_=tt_ov_st_sm" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">they cast it</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0652089/?ref_=ttfc_fc_cl_t1" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Emily Osment</a>, of <span style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Hannah Montana</span> fame, as Gabi Diamond, our protagonist</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1838070/?ref_=ttfc_fc_cl_t3" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Jonathan Sadowski</a>, of <span style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">$#*! My Dad Says, as </span>Josh Kaminski, Gabi's tech entrepreneur boss; <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0498076/?ref_=tt_cl_t6" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Rex Lee</a> of <span style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Entourage, </span>as Josh's publicist/assistant</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001633/?ref_=ttfc_fc_cl_t2" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Annie Potts</a> of <span style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">GCB, Designing Women</span>, and, of course, <span style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Ghostbusters,</span> as Donna Kaminski, Josh's overbearing mother</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">The Americans' </span><a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2948025/?ref_=ttfc_fc_cl_t5" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Aimee Carrero</a> as Gabi's best friend and roommate, Sofia Rodriguez</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Australian newcomer, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm5220517/?ref_=ttfc_fc_cl_t7" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Mallory Jansen</a>, as Caroline, Josh's high society girlfriend</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The inimitable <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0005552/?ref_=ttfc_fc_cl_t4" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Kym Whitley</a>, of <span style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">Curb Your Enthusiasm</span> plays Yolanda, Josh's housekeeper</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And finally, Top Chef winner and owner of Los Angeles' <a href="http://mvink.com/" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">ink</a>, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm3558350/?ref_=ttfc_fc_cl_t8" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael Voltaggio</a>, as himself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><img alt="" src="http://brokeassgourmet.com/images/1104.jpg" height="266" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;" width="400" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So Evan and I flew to Los Angeles to watch the taping of the show, and you guys, it was <span style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">good.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I realize I'm biased, but it was the kind of show I'd want to watch, even if it weren't directly connected to me. The characters are lovable, but real. You want to hang out with them. More specifically, you want to share a meal and a few drinks with them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then, this Monday, the unimaginable happened: <a href="http://www.deadline.com/2014/01/abc-family-picks-up-comedy-pilots-starring-tori-spelling-jennie-garth-emily-osment-to-series/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #e61739; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;">ABC Family picked up the show</a>. It's going to series. Production starts this spring, and the show will premiere later in 2014. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can't begin to express how blown away I am. It feels like yesterday that the concept of this maybe being a faint possibility was just introduced to me. But here we are.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'll keep you posted on my involvement, as we get closer to the premiere. But for now, I'm going to celebrate with a few cocktails and an incredible meal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit;"><img alt="" src="http://brokeassgourmet.com/images/1106.jpg" height="400" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; border: 0px; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: all 0.15s ease-in-out; vertical-align: baseline;" width="300" /></span> </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3