My contractor makes me want to cry

Work today is driving me insane. I was going to answer a couple of good "Dear Jamy" questions, but they will have to wait until tomorrow. Today, I will complain about work.

I didn't cry, but I felt tears of frustration pushing against my eyes. If I weren't quite as controlled as I am, some might have seeped out.

[Note: if you can guess where I work, please don't mention it in the comments. I don't want to get into trouble or get anyone else into trouble. Those of you who already know—shhh!]

I should first tell you a little about my job. I work in the research and policy office of a federal agency. My division does program evaluation. That is, we study our agency's programs. We don't measure how effective we are, usually, though that could be done (though not well or accurately). Mostly we document programs using administrative data, surveys, site visits and interviews. It's basic social science research. We have a small staff and we employ contractors to do our national level studies. We write "Statements of Work," which become part of larger "Requests for Quotes/Proposals" that the contractors bid on.

I write statements of work. I review proposals. I select contractors. After the project is underway, I manage it. Everything the contractor writes, I read and respond with comments. They must follow my comments or explain why they disagree. I sign their invoices and make sure they stay within budget. At the end of the project, the contractor submits a final written report. My agency publishes the report and I have to make sure that happens too, though there is a publication division that does the heavy lifting on that end.

I do a bunch of other things, but the core of my job is managing contracts. Right now, I have three active projects, but five is a more reasonable number. I would have five, but we have no no money for contract research because of budget cuts--vicious, unreasonable, painful cuts.

Since there are few firms in this country who do social science research, and even fewer who specialize in my agency's area, we used to do the bulk of our contracting with maybe five firms. Only two of those consistently did good work.

Over the last four years, our job has been made even more difficult by a directive to work with small businesses whenever possible. That cut out our top two firms. It's fine to ask us to widen our net, but now the small businesses have to be the lead contractor on projects where they have no expertise. Smart small firms subcontract with a larger firms in order to come up with good proposals. All of the contracts I'm running are 51% small firm/49% large firm deals. Sometimes the large firm has more than 50% of dollars, but less than 50% of the hours (or is it the other way around? No one is clear on this, even the contracting office), but that is still ok. Um, sure it is. Whatever.

One of my contractors is a "small" firm that has substantive knowledge, but lacks methodological expertise. The project involves a national level survey and a complicated sampling plan, so they hired a methods guy as their "partner." The methods guy is an idiot and one of the worst writers I've yet to encounter in this job. The last set of comments I gave them on their "Data Collection and Analysis Plan" was ten pages long (on a 40 page document; that is not good). The Project Director at the lead firm is one of the worst people I've ever worked with. He does not listen to me. At all. Just the other day, we had this exchange:

Jamy: So, on this cover sheet for the survey, is there a place to record [vital information]? Is it this box called "reference"?

Project Director: It's in the yellow part of the form.

Jamy: My copy of the form doesn't have any yellow on it. Is it "reference"?

PD: It should be in the highlighted part of the form.

Jamy: Right, but my version doesn't have the highlight. I know we're not looking at the same version of the form, but this box is on both, I'm sure. So, is the box called "reference" the place where the inspector would write down [vital information]?

PD: We must not have the same version of the form.

Jamy: Right.

PD: The place to write down that information is in the box called "reference." It says "reference."

Jamy: Well, I wasn't sure. Because "reference" isn't intuitive to me. But if it's the language that the inspectors know, then we can just keep it. That's fine.

PD: It's right there in the yellow. We can move it.

Jamy: No, that's fine.

PD: The inspectors will know what "reference" means.

Jamy: Ok, so let's just keep it. But make a code sheet or something to put it in lay language.

PD: If it's not intuitive, we can change the form.

Jamy: No, don't change the form. It's fine. We can just make a note.

Do you see why I'm frustrated with him?

In order to get permission to do our survey, we have to submit a huge package of papers to the Office of Management and Budget (OMB) under the Paperwork Reduction Act. The main part of the package is a "justification" that explains why you need to do the survey or "information collection" as OMB calls it. The "paperwork reduction" is for the people who have to fill out our surveys—the idea is to prevent duplication of effort. Fine, but the upshot is a package is almost 200 pages long. Luckily, most of it is submitted electronically. (It is an irony that escapes no one that something called the "Paperwork Reduction Act" causes us to produce hundreds and hundreds of pages of paper.)

We're at the end of one step of the process and I'm trying to get the package in the right format for OMB. There are "OMB police" who are employees of my agency who have to clear the package before we send it to OMB. I've been several rounds with these folks and made most of the changes they requested. I got to a point, though, were I decided it would be faster to have the contractor make the final changes. I wrote the Project Director a note last Friday (2/17) telling him exactly what I needed:

The final package should have the following items, each as a separate word document (not necessarily in this order--rather in the order they are mentioned in the justification):

1. The justification, parts A & B (make the needed changes on the version I sent earlier)
2. Form OMB-83I (I sent this to you, no changes are needed)
3. The [technical] report [I just needed a clean version; the orignal had formatting problems]
4. The Federal Register notice (again, just use what I sent, no changes)
5. The [long] survey instrument, with the Paperwork Reduction Act statement on the first page
6. The [first short] survey instrument (I've attached a copy and this is what you should use)
7. The [second short] survey instrument (again, this is attached)

It took my contractor five business days to do this. This was after he called and had to ask many clarifying questions. Please note that I sent them copies of five of the seven items on the list. The other two items needed some words changed, but were documents the contractor had already submitted to me. I specifically gave instructions on how to send the documents to me via email.

Instead, today, I received by courier, a box with three hard copies of the new package (3x170pp) and two CDs. One CD with the Word files, zipped. The other CD with a PDF of the whole fucking thing. There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to start.

It's not delivered in the manner I'd requested—namely email attachments. Then, there are silly duplications. The word files don't need to be zipped if they're on a CD—I'll have to unzip them anyway to check for errors. I don't need two CDs when both the PDF file and the Word files could easily have fit on one. Neither CD is labeled.

But, fine, I have the soft copies and that's all I need. I expected to open the zip file on the CD and find seven Word documents. Guess how many there were? Hint: a lot more than seven.

Eighteen. There were eighteen documents. Some were "dividers," (the contractor's word). That is, they just said, "Attachment 1" and nothing else. Useless when the whole thing is being submitted electronically.

The very worst part was that the long survey instrument was cut up into eight separate documents. I practically tore my hair out when I saw this. I knew I would have to put them all together and that would no doubt lead to anguish.

I ranted to my colleague, TR, and then to my boss. I shot an email to the contractor,

I am perplexed as to why the [long] survey instrument is divided into so many parts. This is confusing and I have to knit it back together for the OMB package. I don't know why some items have separate cover sheets and others don't.

It took them a while to respond, but they said that joining the eight documents into one would be troublesome, though they declined to say why. Eventually, a PDF of just that item arrived. I got rid of the "divider" pages, zipped everything up and sent it to the OMB police at my agency. It hasn't bounced back and I haven't heard from them yet—in this case, no news is good news.

I am scared about what will happen when they go into the field. They cannot carry out a simple request, they went over budget on the first phase of this project, the project director does not listen to me—what's going to happen when we get to the meat of this project? We're talking about a million dollar contract—the entire project is 1.4 million—but we only have million to put into it right now. And you know what that means? After these bozos screw up the data collection, get the sample weights all wrong and create an unusable database, yours truly will have to clean up the mess, do the statistical analysis and write the final report.

Oh joy.

Grateful for: the end of this work day.
Drop me a line.

Sharing

When I was dating my important grad school boyfriend, Tom, we had a fight about sharing bathroom items. [Note: I’ve always referred to him as "vip-ex" but I’m sick of it. He gets a name now and that name is "Tom."]

Tom was insulted because I didn't want to share my hairbrush and bath towel with him. My reaction was, "Wouldn't you prefer your own hairbrush and bath towel?"

"You're being petty. You don't care about me."

"What are you talking about?” I didn’t know that sharing bath items was a sign of affection. “How can you say I'm petty?"

"When I go stay with my dad we use the same towel all the time and it's no big deal."

"Well, in my house everyone got their own towel. I'm just treating you like any other guest."

"I don't want to be treated like a guest. You don't want me here." Tom said.

"I can't believe you. Look, I don't care if we share a towel, but when I get out of the shower, I want a dry towel. Just leave a dry one for me, ok?"

"Ok."

But we still hadn't resolved the matter of the hairbrush.

When I was a little girl, I was fascinated by the objects my father pulled out of his pockets and placed on his dresser at the end of the day: a half-eaten roll of mints, a Chapstick with the label worn off, a comb and piles of change. I would touch all of these items, use the Chapstick and eat a mint if he weren't looking. On more than one occasion, I asked to use his comb. Dad said, "Don't use the comb--I have dandruff and I don't want you to catch it." Thus, I merely worshipped the comb from afar. I also thought that you could catch dandruff.

Guess who else had dandruff? Tom, that's who. I usually keep my hair long and I tend to buy a new brush every couple of years. The old ones don't wear out, but they get dirty, they're hard to clean and sometimes I just want a new style. Sometimes I get one that's not really suited to my type of hair (straight, fine, and abundant). The old brushes knock around in the bathroom cupboards for years until I finally get sick of seeing them and toss them in the trash. I had a couple of nice, lightly used, good quality brushes, which I offered to Tom. Of course, he never used a brush, just a comb, but I only had one comb and I didn't offer it to him. Because of the dandruff.

The same day we fought about the towel, he said, "Why can't I just use your brush?"

I said, "Don't you prefer using your own?"

"No. It's a pain."

"That's silly, it's right there in drawer You can use any of the brushes in there." I said.

He asked, "Why can't I use yours?"

"Look, I'd just prefer if you didn't."

"You're being selfish."

"Really? You think that?" I was hurt. "I'm offering you two really nice choices--that boar bristle brush is practically brand new and it's perfect for your hair. I've only used it a couple of times."

"I don't like it. Why can't I use yours?" Tom insisted.

I sighed. "I don't want to share the brush with you because you have dandruff."

"What? Really?"

"I don't want to catch your dandruff." I felt foolish saying it because as soon as I did, I realized it probably wasn't possible to catch dandruff.

"You can't catch dandruff."

"Oh. Really? I didn't know that." It was one of those little myths I'd been carrying around since childhood and I had never needed to question it before.

"Who told you that? It's not a disease."

"My dad told me. When I was little. So, I just thought…you really can't catch it?"

"No."

"Oh. Hmm." But I wasn't entirely convinced.

A couple of weeks later, I asked my hair dresser about catching dandruff and he laughed and laughed. "What do you think, you can catch grey hairs too?" Well, no, I'm not stupid. But I had to laugh at myself a little too.

After that, I offered to share my brush with Tom. He declined and just used his fingers.

I guess I should be grateful that he never asked to share my toothbrush.

---

Another boyfriend-related sharing experience was with my first Chapel Hill boyfriend, Fred. He used to spend a lot of time at my place because he lived in the dorms and hated his roommate. The roommate hated me too so I only spent the night there once or twice. When he stayed at my place, Fred would always leave his shoes and socks in the middle of the room, insuring that I would trip over them if I made a visit to the bathroom in the night. I said to him, "Could you please put your stuff next to the wall where I won't trip on it?" But he never did.

One day, I was clearing out my closet and I made some room for Fred. I said, "Here's a shelf for you--you can put your stuff here."

He never left his shoes in the middle of the room again. Apparently, that was his way of marking his territory. But he never would have asked for a shelf. Fred was the silent type.

---

When I was going steady with Tom (in the same era as the bathroom sharing incident), I spent a lot of time at his house. He lived closer to campus and he cooked dinner for us almost every night. (I adore a boyfriend who cooks.) I didn't wait for him to clear out shelf space for me. One day I said, "I need somewhere to put my pajamas. What about up here? I'm moving your stuff." I put my things in an out of the way spot on the high shelf in his closet. He was surprised, but he didn't stop me. Later he made a more convenient part of the closet available to me, so I guess it was ok.

Sharing, that's what it's all about. I like that I was able to see Tom's point of view on the towels and the brushes, though I still think it's odd that he would accuse me of being petty for wanting to keep things separate. The truth is, I didn't mind sharing, especially since it was so (symbolically) important to him.

When someone is spending a lot of time in your space, it can be hard for them to ask for what they need. That was Fred's problem. He was in my house, following my rules--it was undeniably my place. But by giving him that little tiny space of his own, I let him know he was welcome and he was much more comfortable after that.

With Tom, I didn't have any problem claiming a little space for myself. But with other guys I would probably wait until they offered. You have know how to read the situation.

Grateful for: learning to share.
Drop me a line.

P.S. I asked Pele to read an earlier draft of this post to make sure the switching back and forth between Tom and Fred wasn't confusing. That didn't bother her, but she said, "I'm not sure about that last paragraph. What's the moral of the story?" I said, "You want a moral, huh? Dammit." And you will notice that I did find a moral and it's there in the last three paragraphs. It's nothing that you couldn't have figured out on your own, but it's a better conclusion. The original ending wasn't linked to the rest of the story. It was, rather, a musing summary of the issues that led to my breakup with Tom. It may get it's own post someday, but this isn't the place.

More movies

I've got a couple of new things up over at the movie site. Take a look if you're so inclined. Big Momma and Madea Match Point Transamerica

A shoe story

When I was in Seattle last October, I bought a pair of shoes. This is not an uncommon occurrence. There is a particular store in Wallingford where Mom and I end up and they have a good selection of comfy, expensive shoes. This time, there was a sale and I found a pair of Keen shoes that fit and were cute--sort of. While I'm a bit fan of comfortable shoes, I don't care for ugly shoes. I don't like Birkenstocks and I've always thought Keens were, well, not so keen. But, these didn't have the big black strip on the toe and they were bargain priced, so I figured why not. My only objection was that they were red-ish. I buy almost exclusively black shoes. They go with my collection of almost exclusively black slacks. I have sandals and sneakers of many colors, but day-to-day shoes are black. Anyway, my mom hates my penchant for black and because this pair was red, she encouraged me to buy them. And buy them I did.

I wore my new shoes around town for a couple of days and I noticed a problem. The right shoe was too short. My toes were hitting the end when I walked. The left shoe was fine. As is true for most people, one of my feet is slightly larger than the other--but it's my left foot. So I knew the problem had to be the shoe itself. The shoes were marked the same size, and they looked the same but I thought I could detect a tiny difference in length. And I could feel the difference. I decided to take the shoes back and see if the store would help me out.

The lady at the store said, "If you hadn't worn them, maybe we could have done something."

"But it's clearly a manufacturer's defect." I said, plaintively.

"There's nothing we can do. I don't see a problem." She examined the shoes, checking for a difference in length. "The look the same to me."

"They don't feel the same." I said, "You can't send them back? I mean if the problem is how they made them, the manufacturer should replace them."

"I'm sorry, we can't do that."

Ok then.

After that thoroughly unsatisfactory experience, I took the shoes back to DC. It occurred to me to get in touch with Keen directly. I wrote an email and explained the problem. Within a week or so, I received a response telling me to expect a call. In a few days, I got a call from Peg, who worked at Keen. She let me know that they would arrange for a local (DC) store to make an exchange for me. I was delighted. Peg said, "Call James at [local store] and he'll take care of it."

The next day, I called James and I brought the shoes to his store after work. This was shortly before Thanksgiving. James gave me his card and said I should call in a week or two.

I called. Nothing. I waited. And called. James was not there. I called. I left my number for James. I waited. Then I forgot.

Many weeks later, well into January, I remembered. I stopped by the store and, by chance, James was there. He said the folks at Keen hadn't sent him the replacement shoes. "We don't carry that kind."

I said, "I know. I thought they were supposed to send you a new pair."

He seemed to blame me for not telling him what kind of new shoes I wanted. I figured that would be obvious. I was confused.

James said, "I don't even remember the lady's name. Do you have her number?"

"I remember. Her name is Peg. I have her number at my office. I can get it tomorrow."

"Call me and give me the number and I'll get in touch with her."

"So you want to call her?" I asked.

"It's better if I call her." James assured me. "Sometimes they can be funny about that."

When I got to the office the next day, I found the woman's number. I called her myself. It's true, I didn't completely trust James. Peg didn't remember me, but with enough information and a few dates she found me in her records. She said, "I'll call James and get this sorted out. I'm really sorry." I thanked her profusely.

The next day Peg called and said the shoes were on their way to James' store.

So I waited. And called. And waited. And called. I called three times this week. Unless James was there, no one knew what I was talking about--no one could find the shoes. The person I spoke to on Wednesday said that James was working on Friday. I called on Friday before I left work and James was there. He said the shoes had been there for a week and a half but he didn't have my number. I said, "I've called, but no one knew what I was talking about."

I stopped by the store on my way home and picked up the shoes. It's only been four months. They are not the same model as I bought originally--that kind is discontinued. This pair is fabulously ugly with a huge black toe cap. What's the deal with the exclamation point inside the yellow triangle? I wish I'd ordered black instead of "garnet." Peg talked me into them. She said they were very comfortable and that the black looked dull. But, Peg, black goes with everything. When am I going to wear ugly red shoes?

I sure hope they fit.

Grateful for: new shoes.
Drop me a line.

Israel

Every time I mention Israel, I get a couple of comments, so I’m going to write about it. Be warned, this is a long, ramble of a post. Maybe my complicated family stuff and my radical politics and my unconventional views on religion explain it. You tell me--if you make it to the end.

(My trip is March 16-21 and Miss Tabitha still needs a home. Poor kitty.)

I have no romantic ideas about Israel. I don't think of it as my homeland. I'm living in my homeland. I've been there twice before, both times to visit my family (one of my older brothers lives there). Minimal sightseeing was involved.

Both trips occurred about 16 years ago. Maybe a year after I graduated from college, I finally took the solo trip to Europe I'd talked about ever since going on a college-sponsored group trip the summer before my senior year (I was 18). On my solo trip, I was 21, which is why I have the timing about right. The trip lasted about three months and I spent two weeks of it in Jerusalem, sleeping in what can only be termed a closet (with a window) off of the living room in my brother's tiny apartment. I also served (willingly) as an informal mother’s helper for my sister-in-law. Oh, except for the three or four days when I was knocked out by a stomach virus or a reaction to the local water. After that, my sister-in-law started boiling water, filling up old 2-liter coke bottles and chilling them in the fridge for me. There were four kids then and my nephew was five. Some highlights:

• Renting a car, challenging when you are under 25, but somehow I managed it.
• Driving to Tiberius with my brother, taking a dip in the Sea of Galilee (it’s just a really big lake). We took turns waiting for each other in the car—no co-ed bathing in his religion.
• Getting lost on the way back, at night, without a proper map.
• Looking at the Dead Sea but not going in.
• Looking at Masada but not climbing up.
• Preventing my nephew from fooling me into buying him two gumballs instead of one due to my ability to count to 7 in Hebrew.
• Staying up late into the night three or four times talking to my brother—we bonded.
• Going to see “Pretty Woman” with my sister-in-law—we bonded a little too.

Even though Israel doesn’t have the “homeland” resonance for me, I did have this funny feeling one day when I was walking on my own in downtown Jerusalem. I looked around and I thought, “Everyone of these people is a Jew. The exceptions are the non-Jews.” While I've been lucky that I've encountered very little anti-Semitism, I'd never had the feeling of being in the majority--where being Jewish was taken for granted. Perhaps I could have had that experience at the Jewish summer camp I attended if the other kids hadn't been so mean. The only bonding along these lines occurred when I asked my tent-mates one of my standard getting-to-know-you questions, "What religion are you?" There was a moment of silence and then we all burst out laughing. That feeling of being in the majority is a cozy one.

The second trip to Israel took place just eight months after I returned from my mini-tour of Europe. My father was making his semi-annual trip to visit the grandchildren and my step-mother declined to accompany him (this was the first of two times she’s done that—she’s a trooper—and a good grandma to the kids—she’s their only living grandma, in fact). In her absence, Dad asked me to join him (Dad hates to travel alone). I agreed—I was working a crap temp job and I was happy to have a reason to quit. I remember relatively little about that trip except taking the two oldest kids to Tel Aviv for the day and watching them swim in Mediterranean in their underpants. Very cute and possibly one of the last times they were nice to each other. Oh, and how could I forget the mini-van Dad forced me to drive to the "safari" about an hour away. Look at the lions! Keep your hands in the van! Mommy, I can't see! The van only had seatbelts for the front seats and on the way home we had four tired, crying, sick kids rolling around in the back. It was great.

One reason for my upcoming trip is that my friend, Spesh, has been asking me to visit since the day he got back to Israel (January 16th). The Israeli family has also been asking me to visit for at least the last two years (ever since I cancelled a trip I’d planned to make with Dad right after we started our war with Iraq—Dad was stuck on his own and he didn’t like that).

However, the main reason for this trip is that my 20-year-old nephew is getting married. The most common reaction to that news is, "You have a 20-year-old nephew?"

I have eight nephews and nieces. The Israelis: 20-19-18-16-11. The New Jerseys: 6-4-1. The oldest and youngest are boys. My brothers are 7 (B2) and 8.5 (B1) years older than I. B2 got married when he was 23. B1 got married about seven years ago, when he was 38. (If it isn’t abundantly clear by now, or you haven’t read previous posts about my family, I have a lot more in common with B1 than with B2. Oddly, temperamentally, B2 and I more alike. Life loves those little ironies.)

My Israeli family are strict Orthodox Jews. They could be characterized as “Ultra-Orthodox,” “Haredi,” or "frum.”

They have arranged marriages. However, the marriage of my nephew wasn't arranged by a matchmaker--the bride is the niece of my nephew's boss. The boss introduced them and I guess they've been dating--though I'm not sure what that means in their culture. The families got together and made the marriage arrangements. The bride is orthodox, but not to the same degree as my family.

My family follows the kosher rules to the letter, they dress modestly and they pray a lot. They keep the Sabbath, aka Shabbat, which runs from sunset Friday to sunset Saturday (actually, a bit later than sunset). Keeping Shabbat means that innumerable things are forbidden. The Shabbat don’ts include: lighting a fire (anything that creates energy is forbidden), tearing paper, carrying things outdoors, cleaning house, earning money, exchanging money, smoking and writing. Reading, eating, walking and praying are permitted. There are mixed opinions about bicycling.

The Ultra-Orthodox follow the covenant that the Jews made with God. That's what Moses brought down from the mountain. It wasn't just the ten commandments--it was a whole bunch of other rules too. To the Haredi, keeping the covenant defines being Jewish. That's why the Reform are bad Jews--because we don't keep the covenant.

It's not entirely clear to me why we're even considered Jewish if keeping kosher, etc., is what makes you a Jew, but that’s ok with me. Ideally, Reform Judaism is more about beliefs than practices.

However, you can also be a Jew by birth. Since my mother and her mother and her mother and her mother were Jews, I am a Jew. (One of my great-grandfather's parents was Catholic, but the religion is passed through the maternal line so that doesn't matter. It is not progressive--the reasoning is that you always know who your mother is.) There is lot of lineage baloney wrapped up in Judaism and it's even more pronounced among the Orthodox, despite the covenant business. The Orthodox care a lot if you have a famous Rabbi perched somewhere in your family tree.

Interestingly, since keeping the covenant makes you a Jew, it's possible to convert to Judaism (there are tests involved). In fact, B2 had to convert because his mother was not Jewish. (I share a father with my brothers, but we have different mothers. B1 and B2 are full brothers.) B1 converted too, but not until he was in his 30s, in anticipation of his marriage (another long story). If you want your conversion to “count,” though, it must be Orthodox. An Orthodox conversion will actually earn you the right of return to Israel; a Reform conversion will not.* Because, you know, Reform Jews aren't really Jewish.

*I can't document this, but it's what I was taught in religious school. Someone correct me if I'm wrong.

I know that when some people find out I'm Jewish they will look at me differently. My differences were emphasized early because I went to elementary school in Knoxville, TN (The South). I've never minded answering a lot of questions about Judaism. I've always been on an informal education mission for my religion--transforming the bible stories into short comic myths. There is some good stuff in the old testament. And, thanks to B2, I know more about the ins and outs of kashrut (kosher in Hebrew) than any Reform Jew you'll ever meet.

I'm not offended by questions, but I am offended when people tell me that Judaism is a culture and not a religion. My position is that it is a religion. You can convert to it. Sure you have to ask three times (the rabbi will turn you away the first two times), but it is allowed. I just read something, in the search for a definition of “frum” on the internet, that said you don't even have to be circumcised to be a Jew. There are some rituals you can't take part in if you aren't circumcised, but that's it. Born of a Jew, you are still a Jew. Oh, wait. I'm contradicting myself.

Still, the idea of a Jewish "race" is offensive—it feels like racism. I want to be able to believe whatever I want to believe because I’ve chosen to believe it, not because I’m born to it. I want to choose to carry on whatever family traditions I like because they are traditions in my family, not because of a racial obligation. We know that if you are black, you are burdened with all kinds of expectations—you are supposed to be a good athlete or like rap music, or dozens of other inane and infinitely more offensive things. I guess that’s how I feel when people tell me that Jews are a race. I’m a member of that race, which means what? What expectations of yours do I have to defy to prove that it does not define me?

There is a woman at work who talks about her Jewish friends in New Jersey and she’ll say things like, “You know, that’s what Jewish people do.” Once I said to her, “I’m Jewish and I’ve never done a single one of those things you mentioned. Maybe it’s a New Jersey thing.” Maybe.

Even worse, Israel a propagates a most virulent kind of racism. I'm not saying we should get rid of the state of Israel or that there shouldn't be a sanctuary for Jews, though in a ideal world we wouldn’t need one—I recognize that’s not where we live. But it's still troubling. Did you know that,

…the UN maintains a separate and distinct definition of the word “refugees” for Palestinians who left Israel in 1948 and/or 1967. Palestinian refugees from Israel are classed as both the individuals who left Israel and any descendants of those individuals. This stands in contrast to the UN definition of refugee as it applies to displaced persons connected with territories other than those of the State of Israel: in the latter case it refers only to those individuals who were forced to flee, not to their lineal descendants.

(Reference.)

This is beyond disturbing. Jews and all of their descendents and non-Jewish family members have the right to return to Israel. Palestinian refugees and all of their descendents do not.

What does this have to do with me and Judaism? I don’t know. I take part in very few Jewish activities. I celebrate some of the Jewish holidays at home. I go to services for the High Holidays, for reasons that are obscure even to me. Spesh continually tells me that I'm an atheist (which I neither confirm nor deny). I tell him that believing in God is not required in Judaism, which is true, but belief is preferred. I am Jewish. I am firm about that I will never convert. (Remind me to tell you the story about the Baptist revival where my Judaism was tested and proved.)

I think the trip will be composed of one-third Spesh and two-thirds family. Spesh may end up spending time with my family. That will be interesting if it happens. On the diversity spectrum in Israel, my brother and Spesh are about as far apart you can get. All they have in common is their Eastern European heritage--and that's only on my dad's side for B2. Did you know that B2's mother's family came over on the Mayflower? It doesn't get much more WASP-y than that. Interestingly, B2's mother was more accepting of his conversion to Judaism than anyone else in the family. Before her untimely death she actually moved to Israel and converted to Orthodox Judaism.

Can you believe that I could write more about Judaism, Israel and my trip? I’ll stop for now.

Feel free to debate me in the comments, but let's try and keep things civil, ok? Ok.

Grateful for: being a Jew.
Drop me a line.

Party Crasher

[Note: I've written two posts about my upcoming trip to Israel and I'm not satisfied with either. The first turned into a complaint fest about my NJ brother. Even I was bored. The second became a treatise on Judaism, sure to piss off a few people (it may yet be posted). There is also stuff to say about my mom that might be interesting, but I haven't had time to write it ("we're fine" is the short version). This story has been in the hopper for a while--I hope you enjoy.]

A few weeks ago, Kristin and I went to a party at a stranger's house. We were invited the night before, so we didn't crash the party, but it felt like we did. It reminded me of the time I really did a few years ago.

I'd just broken up with the 2nd DC boyfriend, Bruce. We dated for about nine months, six of them torturous. He was a good guy, but not for me. (He had a drinking problem and a bad temper, which were problems. He had some good qualities too--he was smart, funny, usually kind and good looking.) What kept me in it so long is that he was the "marrying kind" and that's what I wanted. I tried hard to make it work because I wanted to get married. Within a week of our final break, he was dating someone else. Bruce is what they are talking about when they say "serial monogamist." No time out at all. (He is married now, but not to the woman he dated immediately after me.)

While we were together, we tried to go salsa dancing a few times. I'd been dancing for years, so the first time we went, he took a lesson without me and I met him at the club later. It didn't go so well. We tried one other time and he got angry at me when we danced and he didn't know the moves. I did not correct him; he just blew up at me because he was frustrated. That was it for us and salsa dancing.

A couple of weeks after our breakup, I went to the same club on my own (the place where I still go with CK) and took a lesson. C-Money, who had just moved to town, was supposed to meet me there after the lesson. The lesson went fine and after it was over, I danced a few times. Then I started to look around for C-Money. It was past 10pm and I went downstairs to look for him.

He wasn't there, instead, I spotted Bruce--with his new girlfriend! Great. I ducked into the bar and started talking to the only other white guy in the place. I ordered and downed a drink in about ten minutes and told my sorrows to a complete stranger. I even made the stranger dance with me for a few songs (I asked him to dance and he agreed). But then I started to feel overwhelmed with sadness and frustration. Where was C-Money? How could Bruce show up at MY place? When he KNEW I would be there--or at least that it would be very likely for me to be there? And he's with his new girlfriend? When he and I couldn't go there without a huge fight? I had to leave.

I took off, leaving a befuddled stranger and Bruce in my wake. I took a cab home and the first thing I did upon my arrival was to call Bruce and yell at him. It was about 1am and he answered the phone. I said, "It's me."

"Why are you calling?"

"What were you thinking?" I said.

"I saw you there."

"Right. I saw you too. You have a lot of nerve."

"You can't call now. It's crazy. I'm trying to have a good night here."

"Oh, I'm crazy? You know, it's really not cool you showing up there."

"I'm hanging up now. I have to go." Bruce hung up.

I was fuming and frustrated. I wasn't even sure if I had a right to be angry with him. I looked out my big window and, across the street, I saw people. I heard music. Someone was having a party. I thought, "I'm going to that party." I took a deep breath and walked across the street.

I walked into the house and a young woman greeted me. I said, "Hi, I'm a neighbor."

"Oh, were we being too loud?"

"No. I just noticed you were having a party so I though I'd come over."

"Ok." She tilted her head at me. "Great. Do you want a beer--I'll show you."

And my impromptu hostess walked me to the kitchen and gave me a beer. After a little small talk about the neighborhood, she went back to the living room and I stayed in the kitchen. I drank my beer and watched the group. They were about my age, maybe a couple of years younger. A mix of lawyers and actors. I struck up a conversation with a guy who told me about his depression and why he didn't drink. I told him how I got there and he listened sympathetically. After he left, I decided to call it a night and went home.

The next day, Bruce called me and we fought a little more. He called my behavior psychotic, which I thought was a little over the top. "It wasn't psychotic--I'm not going to murder you. I was angry and I think you can understand why."

"It's totally insane that you called in the middle of the night."

"Look, you were still there when I left. It's not like you were asleep. It's not like I woke you up." If he'd left before me, I would not have called.

"It's still crazy."

"Oh, whatever. It's just not cool that you were there."

"Well, what, am I supposed to clear it with you when I go out?"

"No, of course not. But you know there was a pretty good chance I would be there. That it would be more likely after we broke up. You might have given me some warning."

"It wasn't my idea. [New girlfriend] wanted to go."

"Great. So you're fine going there with her, but not with me."

"I'm sorry."

"You know, just, oh I don't know. I'll talk to you later."

Consultations with many friends confirmed that even though I was being somewhat unreasonable, my feelings were justified. Since I've never bumped into Bruce there again, and I wouldn't care now if I did, it's proved to be a moot point.

A few months later, Pele and I went to see a band in Arlington. I was wandering through the crowd and a strange man greeted me enthusiastically, "Hey--it's you--remember me?"

"No...you look really familiar...wait...that party..." It was the fellow I'd talked to at the party--the depressed non-drinker.

"Right--you crashed that party at my friend's house." He smiled when he said it.

"Oh dear." I said. "That wasn't my best night."

"Hey, it's cool. It was great that you did that."

We hung out the rest of the night, but I never saw him again. Good guy.

Grateful for: kind strangers.
Drop me a line.

Why can't we talk?

Dear Jamy:

As a regular online dater, I'm finding that I am having a major problem with these men and their communication methods.

For example, say tonight I meet a man through a friend, or even at a bar. The logical thing to do would be to exchange phone numbers. Then phone calls take place, some conversations are longer than others, and eventually a date is made. Only after a few dates and a level of comfort is established do you exchange email addresses - usually as a way to stay in touch during the workday when phone calls are not an option.

I've been online dating for about 4 years now. What I'm finding with my online dating life, is that these relationships operate almost backward. You have to start off with an email because that's the method of communication provided. But, once you decide to go out on a date, the phone number is exchanged, for planning purposes only. (I've met several men without talking on the phone at all.) Then you meet, then it always goes back to emailing - you get the "thanks, let's get together again soon" email if any at all. I don't view email and other non-speaking forms of communication like the text message to be a viable means by which to court. I'm currently dating a man who returns my voicemail messages with email. Why do people do this?

Do you think that I've found non-committal men, or that this is a casualty of online dating? I've thought of turning off my text messages and telling people to just call. But, any idea inside the reasons why men do this? Any other thoughts you have on the matter would be greatly appreciated.

Signed, Old-Phone-Fashioned

Dear OPF,

Great question! In my ideal world of internet dating (now there's an oxymoron), the contact would be: email on-site, email off-site, phone call, in-person meeting. Of course, as you point out, this is the OPPOSITE of the order in RealLife™ dating. In real life, you meet, then call, then meet again, and repeat as necessary.

But you already knew that.

Let's get to the heart of the matter: why do people (it's not just men) stay in the "virtual" communication world instead of making the transition to the phone communication world (phone is virtual too, but is more reality based than the other modes)? (Aside: what did people do before telephones? Mail! That might make email more palatable--but it's no excuse for text messaging.) Here are some possible explanations:

• You tend to stay in the communication mode where you started. If you started via email, text and IM, you're going to stay there because it's comfortable. Change is hard.
• Phone calls are time consuming. Some people don't have time to chat on the phone or don't enjoy it. They will email because it's easier to control the amount of time it will take out of their day.
• Non-phone people may be people who don't like it when the person on the other end of the line is multi-tasking. They want to focus on talking to you, but hear the tv on in the background or the click of the keyboard (I'm guilty of both). They may stick to email because they won't feel ignored.
• They are lazy. It takes more effort to commit to a phone conversation thant to send an email or a text (though IM is very time consuming). The lack of commitment to phone time may reflect a lack of commitment to the relationship--or simply like instead of love.

How has this played out for me? With the last guy I dated who I met in person, we always talked on the phone. Occasionally we text-messaged during the workday to confirm plans or to say a short hello. In fact, we never emailed until after we broke up. It was decided that email was a less intrusive way to stay in touch if we needed to contact each other. (One vote for email as an impersonal communication method.)

A more recent situation was internet-based and started out with medium-length emails. After the first meeting, there was a combination of phone communication and email was relegated to planning purposes. Now that we are friends, email has made a comeback. (One vote for email as a friendly (but not romantic) way to communicate.)

In general with internet guys, I try to talk on the phone at least once before meeting. I find that a phone conversation communicates a lot more than an email. That said, sometimes I skipped that step and went straight to an in-person meeting. If it was a no-go, then I'd send my goodbye and thank you via email. Otherwise, we'd transition to phone-based communication. (Not sure what this vote is for.)

With my friends, I use both. My friend Pele and I communicate more frequently during the week on email because of workplace constraints. We talk on the phone too, but prefer the talking to be in person. However, sometimes we have just as good talks on the phone. (One vote for using the communication method that is most convenient in the given context.)

Some people, like my friend, CK, are more phone people. We use email almost exclusively for planning. If we get on the phone, we will chat for a long time. I don't call her unless I have time to talk. If I just want to confirm a plan, I'll email. (One vote for using email for planning when there isn't time for long phone calls.)

Spesh, my friend from Israel, hated using email on principle (you'll have to ask him precisely which principle this was), but sometimes it was the best option. When he was in the States, we mostly used the phone and a little IM. Now that he's in Israel we stay in touch via sporadic email and IMing. Distance imposes a huge constraint. (One vote for flexibility.)

I know that if I hesitate to call someone, it's a bad sign in a potential romantic relationship. I enjoy talking and using the phone can lead to some of the purest conversation possible. Phone conversations can be a great way to get to know someone, because it forces you to talk to him and not stare deeply into his eyes or engage in non-talking type activities. But this only works if you have met in person first and you know how to fill in the blanks of expression and intonation that are lost on the phone.

A question to ask yourself, how would you feel if this were a friend and not a potential love interest? Could you take it in stride then?

I do think that there are a disproportionate number of emotionally unavailable people in the online dating world. It's a way to get out there without that nasty business of having to deal with people in person. These folks are likely to keep you in email limbo forever and not make the steps to meet in person.

On a practical note, if you have a strong preference for phone communication, why not make that preference known? I used to send guys my phone number and ask them to call me (cell phone only so you can screen and block if necessary--also the crazies can't find your home address this way). I wouldn't always give my personal email address. After we met, I could always get his email if I needed it. (And yes, I liked him to call me, but I've been known to call first.) If he persists in emailing, you can always answer with, "I'd prefer to talk on the phone" and see what kind of reaction you get.

Good luck.

~jamy

Grateful for: interesting questions.

Drop me a line.

Good dancing

First, I received a great "Dear Jamy" question late yesterday, but I'm going to answer it tomorrow. (Note: I am not inundated with questions, so if you are holding back from writing, don't. Also, if you are worried about anonymity, I can change some details in your letter so your identity will be thoroughly obscured. Do include this request in your email.)

Second, last night I had a great time meeting a fellow blogger, V(espertine), who was in town for a couple of days. We enjoyed a nice meal, though we agreed that our waiter was an odd duck. Actually, he was downright rude. Odd--leaning against a piller when taking our order. Rude--asking if we needed change over his shoulder when he took our tab away. He got a touch over 15% tip (on the before tax total) because we're just that nice.

After dinner, we went swing dancing. The Monday night dance is full of regulars. I described myself as an irregular regular. We ran into CK, who V described as charming. Quite accurate. I said, "CK is great--in fact, she's one of my best audiences." CK is a regular regular these days. Since V was an unknown quantity, she didn't get asked to dance very much at first, but she assured me that she enjoyed watching the dancers and was having fun. A friend of CK's found a couple of partner's for V (wow, I would never be so bold!) and she was off. She could dance and spent plenty of time on the floor. Very nice twirly skirt, by the way.

It was a good dancing night for me. I was on--not in a flashy way, but I felt good on the floor, I clicked with most of my leads and I stayed in an upbeat mood the entire night. It helped that I avoided dancing with two of my least favorite scary old guys. V pointed one of them out to me, "Look at him--comb-over gone wrong." So true and so sad.

The other scary guy has made not-so-subtle racist comments to me about my neighborhood in the past. CK, who is black, said, "He never asks me to dance."

I said, "He's a racist."

She said, "Oh. That might explain it."

I said, "It's really lose-lose dancing with him. He can't dance at all. [He sands in one place and rocks back and forth. Occasionally, he spins you. That's it.] And he talks the whole time. And I don't want to hear what he has to say."

Big laugh from CK.

I decided several months ago that I wasn't going to dance with him again. Being a bad dancer wouldn't have stopped me from a perfunctory one-dance-a-night deal, but the racism pushed me over the top. He's going to impose his bad-dancing self on everyone except CK? Loser. Amusingly, his bigotry works in her favor--she has never had to dance with him.

After I dropped V off, I was wide awake and broke my rule and turned on the tv. Mistake. Even though I was falling asleep watching the tv, I didn't drag myself to bed until nearly 1am. No excuse for that. Now I am groggy at work and not matching the heights of productivity I reached last week. Sigh. At least it's only Monday. Um, no it's not. Dammit.

Grateful for: dancing.
Drop me a line.

Nothing, really

I don't know what you've been doing all weekend, but I've been working hard getting some content up on my movie site. In the interest of that project, I've been to two movies this weekend and I have plans to take in one more this afternoon. Here are links to the new content (this will be updated today or tomorrow):

Something New

Brokeback Mountain

Other things I did:

On Friday, I made the soup. About damn time. It came out well and I ate a bunch and froze a bunch.

On Saturday, I picked up my plane ticket to Israel at FedEx. I used the Flexcar and made a one hour reservation. I decided to use the balance of my time, 45 minutes, to stop by the grocery store. I did the fastest shop of my life--in about 15 minutes I collected: 4 bottles of seltzer, crackers, goat cheese, grape tomatoes, strawberries, cool whip (for the strawberries), cereal and four other things I can't recall because I remember I just barely made it in the "15 items or less" aisle. I dashed home and put away the groceries just in time for Pele to pick me up to go to the movies. Whew.

On Sunday, I visited the new Bed, Bath and Beyond near Gallery Place--and was sighted by fellow blogger, Rob. He saw me and called my name, "Hey, Jamy!" We both remarked on the overwhelming size of the store. They have a crazy wide array of stuff there--from condoms (locked up!) to fine china and crystal.

(An aside: a friend asked me the other day if I heard it when people call me "Jamy" (pronounced "Jamie") as opposed to my real first name. The answer is, yes, sort of. It took me half a second to hear "Jamy" and another half a second to recognize Rob and put the whole thing together. I suppose I'll get more used to it as more people call me by the pseudonym, which is kind of cool. Another strange side effect of the blog.)

After, BBB, I stopped by the usually horrible Ann Taylor loft and bought two pairs of pants. One pair of jeans, the other black trousers. Both are low-ish rise and the jeans have a silly wide flare. Later, a (male) friend tells me that the day for this style of pants has passed. Goddamnit, was my response. As soon as I a find a pair that looks half-way decent, I'm out of style again. Actually, I can't tell if they look decent or not. I swear that place had skinny mirrors in the dressing rooms. After I paid, I was closely examining the receipt to make sure I understood the return policy--if Pele sees me in these jeans and says, oh no, that won't do, I want to be able to take them back--and the clerk says, "Is there a problem?" Geez. I said no and put my receipt away. They can be returned if they are "unwashed and unworn." Unworn? Are you kidding? I can do unwashed, though. They can have their dirty, stinky jeans back if I don't like them.

Besides seeing two movies, that's about all the excitement this weekend held (so far). Sleeping well, writing, shopping, seeing movies--that's just about the perfect weekend.

If you have a "Dear Jamy" question for Tuesday, there's still time to send it in!

Grateful for: long, calm weekends.
Drop me a line.

President's Day

On my way to the coffee shop this morning, I waited to cross a street with a couple of middle-aged black men who may have been homeless. One of them spoke to me.

Man: Hey, it's President's Day. Which president do you like?

Jamy: (Thinking I needed to choose between Lincoln and Washington) Lincoln, I guess.

Man: Ol' Abe...four score...all right, he's all right. You have a good President's Day.

Jamy: You too.

The street cleared and I outpaced them. As I walked by, the man kept talking to his friend...

Man: Ol' Abe, man, he cut me loose. Heh heh. He's all right.

Oh dear

Around 5:45pm yesterday, when I was still at the office, I received this email from our friend, Chad:

hey, what up yo ;)

Oh dear. I did not respond. I think he's a little off his rocker.

On a completely unrelated note, I have at least a dozen yards of bubble wrap left over from the stuff my mom sent me. Would anyone like it?

And, on another unrelated note, would anyone like to board the cutest kitty in the world for twelve days in March (16-28)? I'm going to Israel (more details on that later) and Miss Tabitha needs a place to stay. She is a mouser, and generally friendly and easy going. She has proved able to get along with other cats and I suspect would be fine with other pets as well. Drop me a line and we can figure out the details.

Kitty loves you.

Grateful for: bubble wrap.
Drop me a line.

Dancing fool

I had a post all cued up yesterday, but I lost track of time and had to make a mad dash out of the office to meet CK. And that post sucked. Mostly I complained about my brother. Bor-ing. I can get back to complaining about him some other day.

I'd rather write about last night. Last night, I went salsa dancing with CK. Back in the day, maybe six years ago, I used to go salsa dancing pretty often with my friend, ED. ED introduced me to CK. Over the years, my friendship with ED withered, but CK and I stayed in touch and we see each other fairly regularly these days.

CK liked salsa dancing but she didn't like going to the place in Adams Morgan we frequented. We had a hard time finding a new place that was convenient and friendly. Maybe a year ago I suggested that she try swing dancing. I switched to swing dancing maybe three years ago because I couldn't handle the aggressive men at salsa dancing anymore. Last night, I heard CK credit me with introducing her to swing dancing--in fact, she dances much more regularly than I do now. Very cool. I can always count on CK for swing dancing company, but recently she suggested trying our old Adams Morgan haunt for salsa dancing again. We went for the first time in the contemporary age back in January. And we went again last night.

It was great. CK is very friendly and when we went in January, she knew a bunch of people (guys and gals) from the different dance classes she's taking. (I've taken many swing lessons and never met a soul (me=not so friendly, though I have met people at dances.) Some of her guy friends were there last night and I danced with both of them.

Getting on the dance floor early is critical. The guys need to see that you can dance before they will ask you to dance. An unknown quantity is not as likely to get asked to dance as a known quantity (unless she is blonde and showing a lot of cleavage). Also, I don't ask guys to dance. I've done it twice and it didn't go well. CK does it all the time and it works fine for her. Maybe, someday, I'll change, but I doubt it.

I got several other asks after those first two dances, all by nice (enough) guys who could (more or less) dance. It was fun and I was getting quite a work out.

Then something happened that reminded me of the old days.

I'll back up and tell you something about my salsa dancing history. When I lived in Chapel Hill (I was there for grad school), there was a bar that had a salsa night every Wednesday. I'd known about it for a while and I couldn't get anyone to go with me. On a whim, I mentioned it to KJ and she was happy to accompany me. (I think it was 1994--KJ, is that right?)

KJ and I got drinks and sat in the corner, listening to the music and watching the dancers. There was a lesson earlier in the evening, but we'd missed it. I was fascinated. I loved the music. I wanted to dance but I could tell that I didn't know how. After we'd been there for a while, a man, Hector, asked me to dance. I told him that I didn't know how, but he lead me to the dance floor anyway--where he found out hat I really didn't know the steps. He promptly took me back to my seat. I fumed to KJ, "I told him I didn't know the steps!"

KJ agreed, "He's an asshole." I had many run-ins with Hector over the years.

KJ left, but I stuck around, sitting near a group of students and pretending to be with their party. Eventually, another man asked me to dance. I told him I didn't know how. He assured me that he would teach me.

"Are you sure? I really don't know the steps."

"It's easy, I'll show you. I can teach you."

And that's how I learned the merengue, which is a ridiculously easy dance. (The problem I'd had with Hector is that we were trying to salsa, for which there is footwork. For years, Hector would only ask me to dance merengue and he consistently critiqued my salsa, long after I'd mastered it.) Merenge is in march time--the trick is to learn how to move your hips, but my new friend, Fernando, taught me that too. He also told me how to deal with the guys who hold you too tight--straighten out your left elbow to put space between the two of you. He was a sweet guy and didn't speak that much English, but we communicated ok. I danced with him for the rest of the night and got home sweaty and exhausted.

Fernando asked for my number, and I gave it to him. He called me a few times, but he only ever asked if I were going to the next dance. I always was.

I went back the next week and arrived early, a couple of friends in tow, to take the lesson. I took the lessons for months. It was always, more or less, the same material. I can't count the number of beginner lessons I had. When I could get a friend to come with me, I would go to two dances a week--there was a hotel by the airport that had a Saturday night dance. I would see Fernando (and Hector) there too.

A few months after we met, Fernando called and said he was moving to Alaska for work and I wouldn't see him again. I was sad. I told my best dance buddy that he was leaving and she said he was getting deported to Mexico. I prefer to think he went to Alaska.

Not long after that, I met my next regular dance partner, Alberto. He was more aggressive than Fernando and was interested a romantic relationship with me. I never consented to that. But I loved dancing with Alberto. He dated other women while I knew him, and if he brought a girlfriend to the bar, we might not dance at all. He was very short and had tiny hands, but he was strong and knew how to lead. He could get me doing things on that dance floor that I'd never been taught. He guided me through the salsa steps (after I'd learned the basics) and had me spinning like crazy. My friends didn't like dancing with him because they couldn't keep up, but I loved the challenge. I suppose Alberto and I had chemistry on the dance floor, which made it fun to dance together. He thought that chemistry meant I should date him; I disagreed.

Even after I moved to DC and started salsa dancing regularly again (I took a long hiatus in Chapel Hill--the club closed, I had few friends to go to the hotel with), I tended to look for a regular partner. I would often let the night be dominated by one guy, dancing for hours with him.

The last semi-regular partner I had in DC used to drive me home after dancing and after he asked many times, I finally agreed to go out with him. I liked him, but not romantically, and that didn't change after our date. I would still see him at the club and it was awkward. But he seems to have stopped coming around, which is good for me.

I almost found another regular partner last night, but I was trying to follow Diane Mandy's practice of limiting myself to no more than two dances per guy. I like that idea. It keeps you circulating and you don't give anyone the wrong impression.

I was taking a breather, standing in the corner watching the other dancers. A man came for me. He found me, standing behind two other women, and reached for my hand. He led me to a spot far away from my corner. He held me close. He showed me moves that I didn't know and was patient as I learned. When the next song started, we didn't pause in our dance; we went straight though.

While we were dancing, my partner, Peter, asked my name, where I lived and where I worked. Unlike the old days, he did not ask if I had a boyfriend.

When the second song ended, I separated myself from him and said thank you. He looked surprised. "You're going?"

"I need to take a break."

"You don't want to dance again?"

"Later. Ok? Later." I wandered through the crowd and and found CK. I told her, "That man came right over and took me away. He would have kept me all night if I'd let him."

She raised an eyebrow.

"But not tonight," I said, "I'm not doing that tonight."

I wonder why not? I felt a little sad. Later, while I was dancing with someone else, Peter started dancing with a woman right next to me. After the second song, I thanked my partner and walked away, but Peter didn't ask me to dance again.

In the old days, I would have danced with him for the rest of the night. I would have let myself get carried away in the swoony, floaty feeling that I get when I dance close to someone. When you dance with someone all night, you learn their moves, their style and you start to fit together. It's a very satisfying feeling, especially when you don't have regular physical contact in your life (don't feel sorry for me, it's just how it is). But I know that the connection on the dance floor is something that may or may not translate to "real life" (usually not). Dancing with many people satisfies the desire for physical contact just as well as sticking with one guy all night and it's less likely to give the illusion of a relationship.

If Peter had asked me to dance again, I would have said yes. I wasn't sure if I wanted him to ask me, but I still would have said yes. He was cute, we had that dance floor connection and it's nice to not have to wait to be asked to dance.

Then again, maybe I want something else now and I have a better idea how to go about getting it.

Grateful for: all my dance partners.
Drop me a line.

Can I ask you a question?

Last night, I planned to go home and make soup. (This is the soup that may never get made since I'm busy tonight and tomorrow night. Well, Friday is a good night to make soup, isn't it?)

At the last minute, Pele, invited me (and others) to go get a drink. She had an ulterior motive. A bartender at a certain bar flirted with Pele recently. The purpose of the outing was to see him again. Pele had moral support from a woman in her office, but the more the merrier.

We didn't get to the bar until around 8pm and there was a trivia game going on. Who knew? We were recruited to join a team of two (boy and girl). I was a trivia star (kind of--I knew who wrote "My Funny Valentine"). Pele's work friend said, "I feel so dumb." I said, "None of this stuff is making me any money."

One question was which country in Europe was the first to come up with something like social security--and the hint was that the country was landlocked. One of our teammates said, "Germany" (which was the correct answer). I said, "It's not landlocked." We debated the definition of "landlocked." I rolled my eyes. I suggested Switzerland.

Near us, a drunken couple (Mr. & Mrs. Strange--I could see their wedding rings) stage whispered, "Estonia." I shook my head. But they stated it again, forcefully. Mrs. Strange made eye contact with and said it again. I thought…'Estonia isn't landlocked. They call it a Baltic state for a reason.' A fellow on another team that was sharing half of our table said to me, "Estonia isn't landlocked."

"Right," I said, "put down Switzerland." In the end, the question was thrown out because the quizmaster didn't realize that Germany isn't landlocked.

Throughout the rest of the game, Mr. & Mrs. Strange made many, incorrect and useless suggestions to us. Mr. S made lots of unnecessary eye contact with me. Mr. S was a scruffy looking fellow with a crew-cut and a day's growth of beard, wearing a sloppy jean jacket and a sweatshirt. Mrs. S was a bleached out blond with shoulder length hair, tight jeans and a black leather jacket.

After the game ended, I copped a seat at the edge of a vacated booth--I'd been standing for over an hour. Mr. Strange sidled up to the booth next to me, sat down and started talking.

Mr. Strange: Can I ask you a question?

Jamy: Yes?

Mr. S: Which political party do you root for?

J: Neither.

Mr. S: Really? So...you're independent.

J: I suppose. I'm more likely to back the Dems than the Republicans.

Mr. S: Ok. So, if you had to choose between Hillary Clinton and Dick Cheney, who would you choose?

J: Hillary Clinton. [No, I don't like her…but given the choice, it's a no-brainer.]

Mr. S: Really. Why?

J: Because Dick Cheney is evil. [He just shot a man! No, that's not why he's evil--unless he did it on purpose.]

Mr. S: What? Why?

J: Well, he hates poor people--he's all pro-business.

Mr. S: Are you poor? [Are you kidding?]

J: No.

Mr. S: But you care...

J: I don't think we should screw the poor people...

Mr. S: You are very smart. Let me ask, where are you from?

J: Seattle.

Mr. S: Oh! Way up there--way north. Is it true it rains all the time there? Does it rain all year round?

J: No. It only rains in the winter.

Mr. S: (Laughs.) But does it rain every day?

J: No. And it doesn't rain hard.

Mr. S: So it doesn't rain every day?

J: No. But it's cloudy all the time. [You do not want to know how many times I've had this conversation about Seattle and rain. Did you know that the annual precipitation in DC is almost twice that in Seattle?]

Mr. S: So, what do you do for fun?

J: Umm...[I, uh, play pub trivia?]

Mr. S: Do you run? Hike? What do you like to do?

J: Dancing...

Mr. S: Like...ballet?

J: No. Like swing dancing.

Mr. S: (Makes a face.)

J: And salsa dancing.

Mr. S: That's great! So, will you promise me something? When you get married and you have your first kid, will you name him after me?

J: What?

Mr. S: Not after me, but, say you named him after some drunk guy in a bar.

J: [Yes, I know I was supposed to ask for his name. I didn't want to know his name.] So I can just make up any name and say it's you?

Mr. S: Yeah. Hey, thank you for talking to me. I hope you don't mind all my questions.

J: It's fine.

Mr. S: Really, I could see you looking at the bar...and you just look so smart.

J: It's the glasses. (Removes glasses.)

Mr. S: No, no, it's not that. You have...oh, you took them off. Thank you for talking to me.

J: (Smiles.)

Mr. S: Really, thank you. (Holds out hand, we shake. Slowly, he sidles away.)

I went to where Pele was sitting at the bar with her friend. "What is wrong with that guy? Dude, it's not like I don't know you're married. Ugh."

"They're swingers." Pele said.

"What?"

"His wife is flirting with all the guys in the bar."

"Un-fucking-believable. You know what he said to me? 'Can I ask you a question?' And then he asks what political party I favor."

Pele said, "That's not the question he wanted to ask you."

I could see Mr. Strange staring at me for the rest of the night--I had to confirm this with Pele because I didn't want to turn and make eye contact with him. Much later, he came over and asked me to dance (no one was dancing). I said, "No thank you."

After I left, he went to Pele and asked, "What I could I have done to make your friend like me more?" I don't know how she answered. But he stood too close to her and said, "Am I making you uncomfortable?" Pele (uncharacteristically) said, "Yes, you are making me uncomfortable by standing so close." He went away and didn't bother her again. Pele told me, "You were nicer to him than I was!" Sad but true. At least she learned from my experience.

She also got a kiss on the cheek goodnight from the cute bartender--so at least someone had fun. Thank goodness.

Grateful for: the funny, funny stories.
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Too good to be true

Don't you love it when a post writes itself?

A few days ago a friend (yes, a male friend) asked me how I felt about the upcoming "Hallmark Holiday." I told him that my intention was to ignore it--and I advised him to do likewise.

All I wanted from Valentine's Day this year was to get some chocolate on sale at CVS. Instead, I got the most spectacularly, unintentionally hilarious email ever.

(I also got a lovely Valentine's Day greeting from a fella and to eat chocolate with some co-workers--someone brought in a chocolate fountain!)

Do you all remember the fellow I was emailing with from CraigsList a couple of weeks ago? I'd put an ad up looking for a co-ed softball team. Chad responded and we carried on a lively email conversation. It abruptly ended when I questioned a comment he made about kissing. Read the whole thing here and then come back for PART TWO!!!

Yes, Chad has given me the best Valentine's Day present a blogger could hope for: lovely, precious, funny, blog fodder. Chad, sweetheart, you rock! You made my day. In fact, I think I love you.

This afternoon, I received this message from Chad:

i guess you lost interest :(

Damn. I couldn't believe it. Almost two weeks to the day since his last email. What is he thinking? I must investigate.

I responded:
Chad--

What a surprise to hear from you after...how long? Two weeks?

I don't know if you recall, but this was the last email I sent to you:
>That "kissing" comment bugs me. I'm not sure what you think is going on here.

It was in response to the message you sent:
> maybe a few drinks...a nice dinner...some nice kissing :)

Since I didn't hear from you again, I figured we were not looking for the same thing. Was I wrong?

Hope you are well.
~jamy

Chad responded:
sorry-i guess a nice kiss i thought was harmless...sorry.

One wonders if his first language is English, but I spoke to him on the phone and it definitely is. Why are his incredibly short sentences so tortured?

Jamy:
Chad,

Of course a kiss is harmless. But that level of flirting is a little beyond my comfort level. If we were to meet, I'd like it to be with no expectations--beyond friendly ones. Does that make sense?
~jamy

Chad:
sure it does, sorry. but a kiss will be sweet if we do. :)

I am a bad person because I was rather delighted that he kept going on this way. Normally I would be frustrated and annoyed--instead, I felt like, "Bring it on, buddy! The worse you are, the better it is for me." Bad Jamy.

Jamy:
Chad, I don't know what to say.

I tell you that talking about kissing makes me uncomfortable--then you keep talking about it. It feels like you don't respect my boundaries.
~jamy

Chad (sent before the response above):
are you open to a b/f?

Jamy:
Sure. I am constantly reviewing applicants.

And that, my friends, is the end!

Can we send some love to Chad for making a big, fat fool of himself and providing me we with the best Valentine's Day post ever?

Grateful for: silly CL boys.
Drop me a line.

The painting

I've mentioned this before, but my mother has been sending me stuff for the last few weeks. The stuff consists of all the things I left in her care when I went away for grad school. I did not have my childhood room preserved in amber. I moved to the dorms when I was 16; Mom moved to a houseboat the next year. Because her new place was so much smaller than the old place, I had to get all of my stuff out. And I did.

A few years later, Grandma died and I asked for her china. Mom agreed to keep it for me. I moved to NC and I left a few other things with Mom. Recently, without asking me, she started sending me the things.

First came the dishes. Then came a couple of books that are in her field but that are of interest to me too. I didn't ask for them and I hardly need more books, but it's fine. They are good books to have. Then the stamps. I had a small stamp collection as a kid (all cancelled stamps). I thought they were long gone until they showed up in the mail. I shipped them back to Seattle because my friend Amanda's son said he wanted them. And, finally, the painting.

A few years ago, as a birthday present, Mom sent me two paintings and the one she just shipped goes with them--the style and subjects are similar.

These are the two small paintings:


This one used to hang in my childhood room


A week ago Sunday, Mom sent me an angry email telling me I should write her a thank you note and saying she didn't need my guilt. How was I to respond? I usually fall on my sword when I get an email like that from Mom, but if I did that, she'd just say I was playing the guilt card. So I was honest about how I wasn't thrilled to be receiving all the stuff, but that I would get around to showing her the appropriate appreciation if she would give me some time. She didn't take that well. Here is part of her response:

I have trouble with the contrasts in our lives at your age, and what I perceive in you as self-absorption. It is nobody's fault that I had a lot of responsibilities when I was in my 30s. I am not proud of that feeling, but it is just there.

You are an admirable person and have sufficient social conscience. it's too bad you don't like me more. I need more positive feedback. Presumably you do too, and I am not giving you that.

What huh?

My response was to tell her that it made me sad that she thought I didn't like her and that it wasn't true. Also that she was sending me things on her timetable, not mine, and I needed a chance to catch up. She finally got it and wrote an understanding message--one promising patience. We haven't spoken on the phone yet, but I'm not dreading it. I assume I need to make the first call.

I wondered, is this really all about the painting? I answered myself (perhaps Mom is not the only crazy one), that it's not really about that. It's about the blog.

You may recall that I set up a "mom-safe" blog back in January for my movie-related writing (no, I haven't been posting there). I sent Mom the URL. She was annoyed that I didn't share the "real" blog with her, so she waited a few days to check out the movie blog. When she did, she found a link to my blogger profile (which I had removed). She clicked through, found Grateful Dating, and read a TON of it. She even left a comment on this post (is it a coincidence that the title of the post is 'all movies, all the time'?). Then she called me up and told me she'd read it. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

I madly loaded the site and hunted and hunted for the profile link. I'd commented it out on the template, but I went back and deleted it. I IM'd a friend while I was on the phone with Mom and asked him to tell me if he could see the profile link. Neither of us could find it. That damn link only showed up so that Mom could see it. And, when she found it, she took it as my tacit approval to read the blog. Oh, the little lies we tell ourselves.

Mom seemed to like the blog, which was good, but I was too stunned to say much to her.

Later that day, she sent me a note and said that if I didn't want her to read the blog, she wouldn't. I responded that I was ambivalent about it, but if she could stop reading for the time being, I would appreciate it. And we didn't mention it again.

I can only think, though, that her recent burst of anger is related to the blog. Not the content of the blog--she knows most everything that is going on with me--a good deal more, in fact, than I write about---but the fact of the blog. The fact that I have a whole life that has nothing to do with her.

The last time we had a fight where she accused me of not liking her and claimed not to like me (which is really the height of absurdity), the trigger was a boy. I'd come to Seattle for a visit, the primary purpose of which was to see a guy--Owen, the one I met at New Year's Eve. We'd stayed in touch and I'd seen him on one other Seattle visit. He did not ask me to come, but I have my mom there and my friends, and, well, there is always a good reason for me to go to Seattle.

But Mom kind of freaked out. She got angry at me. She felt put upon. It's not like I didn't spend the majority of my time there with her. But prioritizing someone else--it was too much.

Another line in the email above (not included) says that I, "should not expect automatic hospitality with [mom] at [my] convenience"? What does that have to do with the damn picture? Nothing. It has to do with the visit I made many years ago that was not primarily to see her. And by extention, not prioritizing her. After her freak out those many years ago, I've been ultra conscientious on each visit home . I let Mom know in as far as advance as possible when I'm planning to see my friends--and I try to make plans with Mom first and schedule friend time around her. So, I've been good. I haven't always been Mary Sunshine when I'm home (or when she's here), but you really can't accuse me of being inconsiderate.

It didn't occur to me at first because I was so busy being offended at being called "self-absorbed," but maybe Mom is jealous. That seems crazy. First, I have plenty of responsibilities--and shouldn't she know that? Our lives are rather similar. She had everything I have and more. She had a husband and a kid. A career, a house, a car and a two dogs at my age. A few years later, she didn't have the husband or the dogs, but she had all the rest. I want all those things. I can't tell you why I don't have a husband, a kid or dogs, but it's not because I'm self-absorbed. It's not for lack of wanting. Or trying.

Of course she still has me, no matter what, forever, no matter how hard she tries to send me away. I just wish she would stop trying so hard.

I do think things have settled out between us, at least for the time being. Our fights are less frequent and of lower intensity these days, which is certainly something to be grateful for.

For your viewing pleasure, here are some pictures of the new painting and its companions.

My wall before hanging the new painting


The box with the painting (and my new boots to the right)


Unpacked


Tabitha likes boxes


The wall with the new painting


Another view--The picture on the far left, which is a framed batik, also hung in my childhood room. When I moved to my first apartment, I didn't ask for it, I just took it.


Grateful for: my new painting.
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Snow is pretty

It snowed quite a lot last night, but I still got out of the house late this morning to have lunch with some friends. I took some photos on the way to the metro.

Near Northeast, aka Stanton Park, aka North Capitol Hill
OR
My neighborhood


Branches


The smallest sledder in DC treks up the smallest slope in DC


A real snow-man and his creator


Please note the snow-man's tie


The Library of Congress dome


Grateful for: snow.
Drop me a line.

A day in a few pictures

Last Sunday, I took my "little sister" (not my actual sister) out to brunch and to see some Chinese New Year festivities. We had great food in Chinese restaurant in Gaithersburg and then headed a little farther north to a mall where there was a Chinese New Year celebration. This is some of what we saw (they are "lions" not "dragons" apparently):

Oooh! Pretty.


Okaaay...


That's more like it.


Wow!


After I dropped her home, I talked to my mother on the phone. She told me of her heroic efforts to ship me a lovely painting that I do not want, but wouldn't mind having. I did not say "thank you" quickly enough and she got off the phone in a huff.

As soon as I got home, I had to turn around and head out to the [Steelers' bar] to meet Pele and friends to watch the Super Bowl. I did not forget my earplugs, which was a good thing. It is my contention that the Steeler's fans wear enough jersey numbers to fill out the roster (almost). I took some pictures of the numbers:

Ben "I Love Hines Ward" Rothlisberger, Quarterback


Jerome "Most Sentimental Story" Bettis, Halfback


Troy "The Man With The Hair" Polamalu, Safety


James Farrior, Linebacker


Kimo von Oelheffen, Defensive End


Hines "I Can't Stop Smiling" Ward, Most Valuable Player, Wide Receiver


Terry "Remember Me" Bradshaw, Old School Quarterback


Most confused jersey wearer


Damn, I almost sound like a Steelers' fan, don't I? If the Steelers were playing almost anyone else, I would have cheered for them. Instead, I quietly clapped when the Seahawks did well, sighed when they did poorly and felt outraged at the bad calls. I also cringed when the Steelers' faithful booed the Seahawks. Was that necessary? I hate it when people do that. I don't boo anyone (well, maybe the Yankees--but that's it).

Pele staked out the table early and granted permission for strangers to join us, on the condition that they play nice with the one Seahawks' fan. One fellow asked her, "Is she going to jump up and down? Pump her fists?"

"No, but she may clap."

An accurate assessment. I told Pele later, "It's not the Mariners--then I'd be jumping around. For the Seahawks, I'll be clapping. But I don't fist pump for anyone."

She said, "I'm a fist pumper, so I wasn't sure."

And you know who else was the there? The Pirate Parrot. Why isn't the mascot for the Pirates a Pirate? (The Mariners' mascot is a moose, which doesn't make much sense either, but at least moose live in the greater Washington State area. I don't think Parrots are native to PA.) I bumped into the Parrot and he was kind of handsy.

As soon as the game was over, I hoofed it back home. It was one thing to sit there surrounded by fans of the opposing team; it was another to participate in their raucous celebration of my team's defeat. I didn't think I would care so much. I wasn't sad or angry or anything, but I wasn't happy either. Team loyalty is a ridiculous and completely illogical thing. Nevertheless, I predict another appearance by the Seahawks in the Super Bowl in the not too distant future.

And next time we'll win.

Grateful for: the first Seahawk Super Bowl appearance.