Tell me all about what keeps you ticking

I have never been one for sentimentality. I don't even like chick-flicks like a normal girl should (save the occasional Meg Ryan flick.) I have never felt the need to possess any souvenirs. A glance at a photograph is almost always enough to remind me of a time, a place, a scent. However, this summer I have picked up the habit of "borrowing" (or in some cases, swiping) the clothing of people I long to remain close to. 

In my opinion, there is one particularly great thing about this whole clothing-taking ordeal.

Scent. Scent is my favorite of all five senses. Probably because scents are almost always indescribable and certainly distinct. While I may love words, there is something truly great about not being able to describe something. Being completely and utterly, word-free. 

The problem is, as this summer is flying by, I am finding that I can simply just not wash the borrowed clothing, and the distinct scents can linger on my collection of apparel (whilst they become increasingly soiled), or I can wash away the scent of my friends, lovers, and old flames, and all that remains will be some fabric, a slogan or design, and a size. I think without the scent, a little bit of the borrowed magic floats away. And eventually, people just want their stuff back. 

"I understand why people sometimes want to kill their lovers, eat their lovers, inhale the ashes of their dead lovers. I understand that this is the only way to possess another person with the kind of desperate longing that I have." 

Arel

Arel came home from camp today and for the first time this whole summer, I feel content. I am undoubtedly aware that my contentment will probably disappear come Sunday--when he ships off to his next adventure--skateboard camp. 

There are absolutely two reasons why I feel at ease with him home:

1.) I love my brother. Sibling rivalry hardly ever takes place in the hallways and rooms of the Blau household. It may sound strange, but Arel and I barely fight these days. And even when we were much younger, we rarely fought. Bickering over who gets the last NutterButter or the remote control happens on occasion, but never a real, sitcomesque, bruise and punch fight that I so often observe amongst my friends and their siblings. He takes my side when I fight with my parents, he is the most pleasant passenger to have in my car, and we often agree on what we want for dinner. He is my best friend. 

2.) A part of me isn't sure what to do with myself now that high school is over. To an extent, I am trying desperately to live vicariously through his entrance into high school oblivion. I know that Kivunim and college are bound to be the greatest five years of my life. However, I suck with change and I'm well aware of that. My anxiety is boiling and penetrating into my veins. I'll get over it as I ease into these next few months, but I psych myself out like crazy. I'd like for him to be able to make me real tiny with like, a shrink-ray or something and tuck me into his backpack. I could live with another four years of Mr. Gross, mechanical pencils, and MLA format. 

We could sit in the sun, let the days all roll into one

I really do believe that it is possible for boys and girls, guys and chicks, men and women, to be friends. Afterall, I know plenty of middle aged men and women who have spouses and friends of the opposite sex. After a certain point in our lives, it's not only possible but, perhaps, necessary. 

However, there comes a time when a great friendship--between a guy and a girl--is just going so great, that it has to dive, head first, into murky waters. It's definitely not an uncommon phenomenon. Physical attraction is harder to handle than love. Love can be tucked away in a bottom shelf and kept there. It has no shelf life. It can be forgotten, left without refrigeration. Attraction is a bit more tricky. It doesn't stay away. It's in your fucking face and it can be blamed for terrible decisions and actions.

 

Physical attraction breeds a type of masochism. You fuck around, you get fucked. It initiates a tumultuous whirlwind of flogs and spanks--metaphorical ones, of course (depending on each case individually) but also, an abundance of rewards. The flog and spank end of the bargain is, naturally, the tipsy-turvy confusion of emotion that comes with doing something you probably shouldn't be doing to begin with. Guilt, jealousy, gut-idiocy. To name a few. However, the rewards side evens the seemingly ridiculous situation out. Touching a friend is soothing. You're not all concerned with what you're wearing, what your hair looks like, and the familiar smell of someone you're so close with can often times remind you of, well, home. It turns into something uncannily resembling what biologists like to call reciprocal altruism. Which is more or less when one organism provides benefit to another one without expecting immediate gratification (however, it ends up being conditional overtime.) Basically, he scratches your back...and eventually you suck his cock. Does that make sense? 

 

All in all, I can't say that I've come up with any particularly novel or great theory about why we always end up, in bed, with our best of friends. But I am sure someone will figure it out sooner or later. Perhaps we're all very, very addicted to the exquisite pain of wanting something very unattainable (because, after all, the two best-friends-turned-bed-mates rarely ever end up together.) Do not tell yourself that you two will live happily ever after. You won't. But chances are, your friendship will remain through thick and thin, and that's all that really matters in the end now, doesn't it? 

"I'm tired of the fantasy, because it doesn't really exist. And there are never really any surprises and it never really...delivers. And I'm tired of it. And I'm tired of everything else for that matter. But I don't ever seem to get tired of you."

I thought about the ghost we left behind

It's July 13th and I already feel like summer is dwindling. When the weather begins to get hot, I like to sleep in the least amount of clothing as possible. I normally opt for a white Hanes and a pair of underwear. This morning, I woke up, practically drenched, wondering what the temperature  could possibly be like outside that was causing me such sunstroke inside. Turns out, my mother, in one of her spells of the chills, turned the thermostat up to 76 degrees in the middle of the night. I've been sitting outside most of today and I can't say this is summer. I ache for my toes to touch the rocks in the backyard and scorch. 

Last night, Emily asserted that it "doesn't feel like summer". I told her it was probably just January with a heat wave. 

I'm not even sure what summer should feel like, but I'm pretty sure it isn't this. Perhaps we're all gloomed with the reality that college or abroad programs are a mere few weeks away, or maybe it's the simple lack of ice cream trucks, sprinklers, hammocks, that are bumming us out. I feel like Rumpelstiltskin. I fell asleep for a little while, and woke up an old, unfamiliar person. That was Rumpelstiltskin, right? I feel drained of my childhood. 

"This is how a package of Hostess cupcakes would sound, I thought, if Hostess cupcakes could speak." 

"You are very handsome.  I want to gut you like a live fish. Split you open from the tail up the spine. Remove your guts and put them in mine. But I cannot."

Water in the hole

Since Arel has flown the coop, I have been going out to eat non-stop. I guess the lack of 'Relly sort of puts a damper on any form of family meal at home. I eat lunch out with friends, go for dinner with my parents, and have been spending a huge amount of quality hungover time with my good friends Cathy, Emily, and diner egg white omelets. 

Tonight, however, my mom and I decided--enough was enough. No longer could we throw away hundreds of dollars at Sidewalk Bistro or El Portofino (two restaurants we frequent in Piermont.) It was about time we re-kick the joys of home cooking. And so we did. My mom marinated and grilled steak, made a cucumber and yellow pepper salad (using all fresh vegetables from the farmers market) and I made my specialty: risotto. Now, I am accustomed to making risotto the way I have always loved to eat it--a lot of cream, a lot of Parmesan, and a lot of mushrooms. Mushroom risotto has been a comfort food to me ever since I watched its preparation on Molto Mario. However, this time, neither my mom nor I could stomach such heavy comfort food in this heat (93 degrees today...not okay...). It was time to call to the improvisational culinary gods for a bit of help. I rummaged through the pantry and found my handy arborio rice. Now all I needed were a few fitting veggies and a really great dairy-free liquid to bind it all together. 

And so it went. Meet, basil, asparagus, and tomato risotto:

2 c. Madeira wine

2 c. Low-sodium chicken consomme

1/2 Bundle of largely chopped asparagus 

1/2 Can of organic tomato bisque or stewed tomatoes 

1 Handful of roughly chopped basil

2 tbsp. White truffle oil

4 tbsp. Balsamic vinegar 

*Takes about 25-30 mins. to cook. Stir the liquids into the pot in intervals. Very small amounts at a time. Stir constantly in order to achieve a very creamy consistency. Right before serving, drizzle some more balsamic vinegar and truffle oil over the rice and just have everyone mix it in. 

You might open up your eyes

I tossed and turned last night. I think I was on a mental scavenger hunt for something I haven't been able to find in quite some time. Sleep. The other day, I misplaced my camera and went on a vicious search around my house for it. Giuliette and Ricky, both practicing Christians, mentioned that I should utter the words "Saint Anthony" and, while saying the saint's name, I would magically stumble upon the missing item. I thought that'd be a little bit silly, and ignored their suggestion. I found the camera a little bit later and all was good. But last night was just a hassle. Not only could I not find sleep but both of my ears were in severe pain. So, there I was, a Jew wiggling beneath my Anthropologie duvet, whispering "Saint Anthony" over and over again--hoping I'd find the sleepy solitude I needed so desperately. Sort of a ridiculous scene to play over in my head. 

The sleep never came. I'm not sure if maybe that was God's way of punishing me. Perhaps I should've been repeating "Moses" or "Devora" in my head instead. The godly smiting persisted when I crawled out of bed at 12:45 this afternoon, feeling as if I had gone half deaf except for a shrill buzzing noise deep inside my ear. I decided it was about goddamn (pun intended) time I get myself to a doctor. I called a local ear, nose, and throat doctor, but a snooty receptionist told me the doctor was away until wednesday. Figuring that I wouldn't be able to endure the buzzing and clogged ears all the way on to wednesday, I called my own doctor. I was lucky to get a 3:15 appointment (which means I wasn't seen until about 4.) Turns out, I didn't have an ear infection, but a bad, bad case of impacted wax. My doctor filled a Windex-like spray bottle with water, and attached a long, straw-like contraption to the nozzle. He squirted about fifteen spritzes of water into each of my ears, causing the wax to come spirting out each ear. Sorry, graphic. It felt good. I think my ears may be a-okay now. 

While leaving the doctor's office, I scanned the small cubbies of pamphlets. Hep-A seminars, babysitting requests within the county, and a rather out of place looking thick flyer. "ONE PEOPLE 1 SOUL: AN EVENING OF TRIBUTE TO THE REBBE" Now, there are places where a flyer like this would seem appropriate. A synagogue, a J-CC, a kosher butcher. Now, I might be Jewish, but I am also fairly certain that a doctor's office is more of a secular experience than a religious gathering (thank you, Beizer.) I also noticed that I was probably the first person to grab a flyer (for the sole purpose of being able to quote it in this entry.) I highly doubt that Marilyn O'Donnell and her six month old son with a case of the chicken pox, could really use a spiritual desert commemorating the Lubavitcher Rebbe. 

Things only became more comical after the trip to the doctor. My mom and I then ventured to the post office where we needed to both renew my passport as well as send my brother, who is off at camp, a box of Oreo Cakesters, Swedish Fish, and a Nerf ball. While the passport renewal took less time than we had anticipated, the shipping was the ridiculous part of the day. Leave it to the bureaucracy of the New York state post office to charge my mother to tape a box together. They literally made her pay $3.29 to tape her own cardboard box together. Talk about absurd. So, when we moved the box to the counter--to tape it up--a short, black man with a parted sea of grey curls, essentially yelled at us. "That is NOT the counter for boxing shipments!" He then pointed to a counter about two inches to the left of us and gestured for us to tape the small box over there. I believe there is probably some sort of criteria for being able to work at the post office. You must have some sort of personality disorder. I guess they call it "going postal" for a reason.