I blow my nose atchyew
Blogger comments, I blow a big raspberry at you.
:Þ
Back in the old days, if you had a Blogger profile and chose to show your email, your email address would show in the comments when the comments were emailed to the blog owner. If you didn't have a Blogger profile, I think you had to enter your email address and then it would show to the blog owner.
But now, the only address that shows is "noreply@blogger.com." Which means, if someone comments and I want to reply to them personally, I have to go track down their blog and find their email address.
That is, assuming they have a blog. And assuming they have an email address listed somewhere.
Heh. I just re-read this, and now I sound like a stalker.
I don't go crazy trying to find someone's address, it's just that sometimes someone says something really nice, or meaningful, or it's something that I can really relate to and I want to "bond." It frustrates me that I can't. If it's because the commenter wants to stay private, fine. But if it's Blogger's fault?
:Þ
Way to ruin a sense of community, Blogger.
Labels: blogging, crankiness, infertility
This little light of mine
Y'know, I have to say - I am extremely blessed in one aspect of this whole infertility crapfest. Many infertiles have posted about friends getting pg, and how difficult it is to be around them. How they want to be happy for their friends, and they try - hard - but just can't help being upset and depressed. Even jealous. Or they
are happy for their friends, yet still have to contend with these negative feelings.
All of this makes sense, and is completely understandable. After all we go through, all the disappointments, the crushing negatives, the devastating losses it's near impossible to not be affected by the news that someone near you got pregnant.
For some blessed reason, I don't experience this. I'm not sure why, and I keep expecting these negative feelings to rear their ugly heads when I hear about yet another pregnancy, but I don't. I am truly thrilled when I hear about someone's pg, whether they`ve had an "easy" and "normal" time of it, whether they've struggled with IF for years, or whether they've anticipated having a difficult time because of a medical history and thank G-d didn't.
With all the misery I associate with infertility, and all the garbage that accompanies it - the financial worries, the fights, friends not knowing how to talk to you, etc., etc., ad nauseum - this is one little bright light that I hold onto very tightly. I am so very grateful that I can be happy for everyone who succeeds in grabbing that brass ring, regardless of how the carousel ride went. May G-d continue to grant me this little blessing that holds so much power for me.
Labels: infertility, self-improvement
I'll take door number 2
The downside to anonymous blogging is that when you reveal yourself to people who read your blog, and meet them in real life, you tend to think twice about what you say in your blog.
Hubby and I have "come out" to a few people and had a lovely time with them. I've now introduced myself to two
lovely bloggers with whom I will be neighbours when we move to Israel. I'm really looking forward to meeting both of them in person!
The problem is, I need to rant. About something very personal. But I don't want the people I know IRL to necessarily know this stuff. Some of it has to with Hubby, and I don't want to embarrass him or make him look bad to the people who know him.
So I'm stuck having no one to talk to.
Don't get me wrong, I'm very happy to have met some of my fellow bloggers in person. And I'm very much looking forward to meeting my soon-to-be neighbours! I don't regret that for a moment.
It's just that... I've lost something. I'm amazed at those people who can put themselves out there, without hiding behind anonymity, having the courage to just be themselves. I've witnessed some episodes where people (usually family members) got hurt as a result of that openness, but they typically seem to work things out in the end. But those are rare occasions. The payoff of being "out there" is you have family and friends posting on your blog and being supportive. And knowing what's going on without you have to answer the same questions over and over and over. Not being anonymous definitely seems to have its advantages.
I wish I could do that.
Labels: blogging
Frumtarts
This whole
Miley Cyrus episode has had Hubby and I talking about the issue of sexualizing teenagers. And of sexuality, in general, and who's responsible.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, the
issue is, 15 year-old Miley Cyrus posed for photos with the famous
Annie Liebovitz. One of the photos shows Miley on a bed, wrapped in satin sheets with her exposed back to the camera, looking over her shoulder.
So what. You see more flesh on a beach, right? Yeah, well, satin sheets, exposed back...that's extremely suggestive. And no 15 year old should be photographed in such a suggestive pose. It's not about how much of your body is covered, it's about *how* your body is covered.
For example, when Britney Spears first rocketed to fame, her video for "Oops I did it again" has her and her gal pals prancing all around in a school uniform. The skirt's a little short, but all the important parts are completely covered. It's *how* she wears the uniform that makes it inappropriate.
Judaism asks for modesty from all Jews, male and female. For women, this has been interpreted by the most observant groups to mean women must be covered from collarbone to knees, with opaque socks or stockings and elbows covered. Modern Orthodox interprets it a little more loosely, but still expects fair coverage. These are by no means
all the rules of
tzniut, or modesty, but you get the idea.
Hubby and I were at an ultra-Orthodox synagogue in another town, and observed a group of beautiful young women. There was not an ounce of skin below the collarbone to be seen, sleeves were long, knees were covered, stockings were dark tan.
But also:
the shirts were skin-tight
the skirts were slim-fitted through the hips
the heels were 4-inch flippy-sandal spikes
the various tops they had on over the skin-tight shirts were rabbit-fur shrugs or off the shoulder shrugs
To be honest, these beautiful girls looked like overly-dressed hookers. Both Hubby and I came to that conclusion independently. Even their sheitels or wigs were overdone. It was sad and disturbing.
Thus was coined the term, "frumtarts"
Not to be confused with
Hot Chanies, of course. ;)
Which leads me back to Miley Cyrus. Where were her parents? Supposedly her father was there, and the pictures were digital so they were able to view them immediately. I don't blame Miley at all. When I was 15, which was a very long time ago, I knew who Annie Liebovitz was. If she wanted to take my picture, and told me to wrap myself in a satin bedsheet, I wouldn't have been able to say no - it's ANNIE LIEBOVITZ for cryin' out loud! The doyenne of
Rolling Stone Magazine covers!
However, Billy Ray Cyrus, Miley's father, has been in the business long enough to not go google-eye in the presence of Annie. And certainly he knows what is suggestive and what is not. And what is appropriate and what is not. What made him think that seeing his little daughter in that pose was acceptable?
As for the frumtarts? Well, you don't need to be exposed to tv and movies to know what's not appropriate. Following the letter of the law and being covered up does not mean you've covered up your sexuality.
Just look into the eyes of the next photo you see of a Burqa-wearing woman.
Labels: crankiness, Jewish
The meaning of life
Oh, seriously, where to start? ;)
I think I forgot to mention that last November, I lost my job.
A week later, one of my vendors offered me a job with her and her partners, knowing that it would be just until we moved to Israel. Perfect!
Three weeks after that, she decided to go off and start her own company and didn't think she'd need me.
Then she decided she'd need me, but only part-time.
I've been full-time since. So full-time, that I have no time for anything else. I use my own computer at work, so I have no computer at home anymore (don't worry, I get reimbursed!), and I'm in full-on work mode at work, so no tme for emailing, blogging, reading blogs, etc. Until recently, when I started making time.
So up until last week, I'd go to work, come home, eat dinner, spend an hour doing something - paying bills, sorting recycling, doing laundry, maybe talking to Hubby - then crash. I was under extra pressure because Hubby's not working, and since we need every penny to move to Israel, I felt like I couldn't take any time off.
This week, I said enough.
Projgen: "Enough!"I am trying to leave work 5 minutes early so I can catch a reasonable bus and get home before 6:30pm. Of course, when I get home, I am sorting through stuff.
Y'know. "
Stuff."
The stuff you accumulate after years of living in one place.
The papers, the magazines you mean to read "someday," the tchotchkes, the silly toys and pens and binders, the 536 videotapes, the 324 cassette tapes, the family pictures - the duplicates that you meant to give to family, the blurry indistinct shot that you never threw away - the fry pan with the broken handle, the ceramic statue thing that some relative gave you that you felt too guilty to get rid of even though you really don't like it (the statue, not the relative).
Stuff.
Holy cow, do we collect a lot of stuff. And I'm pretty brutal on a normal basis as to what we get and keep, and
still we have "stuff."
Moving to Israel is making us rethink our "stuff" and how much "stuff" we really need in our lives.
George Carlin is my hero. [warning: language]
Labels: misc
