Kindly Disregard This Entry

No, not really. Please to continue.

It's a variation on a quote. You'll get it in a few minutes (with any luck).

Tonight, I saw on facebook a quiz (one of the singularly stupidest things about facebook) to measure one's "Jewishness". You wind up with a score--like 81% Jewish, or 93% Jewish--based on five questions, which just doesn't even make mathematical sense. And that's not even mentioning the fact that one of the questions, regarding how many candles are on a menorah, didn't even have the right answer as one of the choices.

So I've been sitting here thinking, because you know, this is not the first time my Jewishness has been called into question. And I'm thinking that it doesn't matter one whisker if you had a bar or bat mitzvah. It doesn't make any difference if you eat chopped liver or matzoh ball soup. It's irrelevant whether you light candles on Hanukkah or fast on Yom Kippur. What matters is what makes you laugh. Oh. And songs, too.

You see, it is a little known fact that, among my extensive arsenal of lyrics and songs which by the way have little if any known usefulness is a special slot for one Allan Sherman. A whole lot of Allan Sherman (just stickin' with the sour old lady theme here). And, as you know if you know me at all, that library-of-sorts just isn't going anywhere. I'm stuck with it, ready with a mere cue.

If you don't know Allan Sherman or his songs, well, let me just say you have missed out on a valuable piece of Americana. No, knowing "Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh" doesn't count. That song has passed into the common parlance, into the knowledge of the masses. Everyone knows it. It doesn't count as knowing Allan Sherman. On the other hand, if you know the date on which the liverwurst was put in the case at the delicatessen store or if you know how tall the martian gal was, you're well on your way. And if you don't, there's still hope for you. You can always hire me for private tutoring. I am also available for parties.

And although I just said it didn't count, Hell0 Muddah, Hello Fadduh (yes, it's Muddah and Fadduh, not Mother and Father. Puleeze.) is really the driving force for this post tonight. Because I'm thinking about camp this summer. I'm thinking about one of Phoebe's friends who is at sleepaway camp this week, about all the kids who are at sleepaway or daycamp this week. And the song is ringing in my head--that's how it always works. They come unbidden, when an association autodials them up in my Neuro-Rolodex (oh god, I'm realizing that people might not know what a Rolodex is anymore either. No, it's not a watch.) and there I am, walking around singing, embarassing my daughter (as I have been recently informed. Yes, it has started already). I am thinking about how I had thought of trying to arrange a riding camp for Phoebe this week. I had thought about whether she should re-enroll at the day camp she attended last summer, the one with the lake and swimming lessons. I am thinking of the swim tags we have for swimming in the unheated town pools and the local reservoirs. I am thinking of summer. And I am sitting here, listening to the thunder, watching the pouring rain. We had 26 days of rain in June. And today, July 1, it was raining harder than ever. How could anyone not think of Allan Sherman?

So, with no further ado, here you go. It might not count, but it's called for.



(psssst. It's October 1st. And 5'2". Just so's you know.)

The Unbearable Heaviness of Typing

I've decided there's just too much paradox to go around.

In the brief moments when I am able to step outside of myself, with a smidgen of hypothetical objectivity, what I mostly see is exhaustion. Mind-numbing, physically paralyzing exhaustion. And yes, the blog is just one more thing to do. But it is energizing, life-giving. To write is to exist. This is one of the few times when I don't feel tired.

When I was a child, and things weren't going so well, I went (or was sent) to my room. I closed and locked the door, with or without accompanying sound effects. And then, I wrote notes. I pushed them under the door of my room into the hallway, and waited for someone to find them. In that bedroom, behind a locked door, words on paper reminded me, and hopefully others, that I was still "in there", in more ways than one. So I guess what I'm saying is that I wouldn't call this a new realization.

I am not the sort who cuts myself slack when I am this tired (or any other time, for that matter). I analyze it, I diagnose it. I worry about it and think I should go to the doctor. I come up with a list of attributions (damn hormones), many of which are pretty self-deprecating. I start drinking strong coffee again, forgetting that coffee doesn't keep me awake at all and makes me feel crummy to boot. I tell myself that the fatigue is simply a state of being that arises directly from being "stuck" in one realm or another (and believe me, I've got no shortage of realms). And I strategize remedies. I should eat better (which is true), I should exercise more (which is true), I should get to that flotation place I've been trying to get to, I should make stuff, I should blah blah blah...which makes me think of a song (if you don't yet know this about me--that everything makes me think of a song--now you do.) If you haven't heard the Cheryl Wheeler song "Unworthy", check it out (or at least check out the lyrics, though you haven't heard it until you hear her sing it). You'll laugh till you cry. And you might recognize yourself. I sure do.

Maybe it's really not all that complicated. Maybe it really is true that energy is to be found in doing what you love, what feeds you, what you do to stay alive in your heart, not what you necessarily do to pay the bills. Maybe vitality is located in that which is vital. Go figure. Makes sense to me.

There's too much paradox to go around. I can barely lift my hands to type, and I think that, if I can keep my eyes open, I'll make this a night where I write one line, just to keep up my end of the nablopomo bargain. But once begun, I am alive in this space, this little box on a screen that holds more energy than many other spaces that might be considered more "real". I feel sluggish in my work (day job, paid work) but have at least 5 feasible and yet time- and energy-sucking ideas for revising that work life every day, any one of which fills me with energy and enthusiasm and makes me feel as if there are not enough hours in the day to do all of the things I want to and am ready to do. I sign-on to a definition of myself as simply low energy--probably from being overweight--while at the same time trying to find time to get back into long distance swimming, taking a rock climbing class, walking at the track now that the snow is gone, and always--but always--up for an adventure.

Blogging about blogging. Thinking about thinking. Understanding understanding. Being outside and inside things at the same time.

Meta-everything. That's my kind of deal.