Monday, August 25, 2014

The Over-Sexualizing of Ankles and Elbows

             According to Orthodox Jews, elbows, ankles, and collarbones are far too sexy for public viewing. This ideology recurs in several other cultures and religions, including Islam. But many Feminists today attack women who choose to dress modestly due to piousness or any reason otherwise. They argue that modesty is anti-Feminist, as the laws, of course, apply only to women. However, it is far more likely that modesty does more for equality between the sexes than any modern Feminist tactic, as it focuses on respect from others and for oneself.
Jewish modesty laws, as enumerated lengthily in the Torah, are quite strict. From the neck downwards (excluding hands and feet, largely out of necessity I would imagine) every square centimeter of skin must be covered. And not by a spandex cat suit, either. Those women adhering most strictly to these Jewish traditions typically don long, body-grazing skirts, paired with modern tops layered with white undershirts stretching from the nape of the neck to the crease of the wrist. But the modern orthodox gal’s daily routine doesn’t end there. The Torah also dictates that a married woman ought not exhibit her hair in the company of men other than her husband. So to complete her morning beauty regiment, she places a full and flowing wig of hair firmly on her head, and struts out the door (depending on her company, of course).
            Today, many women (and even men, I suppose) denounce these devout Orthodox females, arguing that their beloved religion is anti-Feminist. This is due to the fact that the meaning of “Feminism” has changed. Historically, Feminism was a movement that sought for the equal rights and treatment of women everywhere. Its proponents enabled women to vote, empowered them to be both mothers and laborers, and fought endlessly to earn women equal wages and benefits in the workplace. But today, Feminism is something different. Feminists today ask different questions.
            They ask, “If a man can sleep with seven women in seven days and be considered a ‘stud,’ why can’t a woman?; If a man can sleep with his teacher or boss and be praised for it, why can’t a woman?; If a man can walk around with his shirt off without any consequence, why can’t a woman?” And so forth. The idea behind this is that if men are allowed to do these things, women should be able to do them too. It seems that the new norm for Feminists is to strive to emulate the worst of men’s’ behaviors. Equality was tainted, then altogether left behind, in favor of an overly sexualized culture, more concerned with getting laid than getting ahead in life. Arguably, modesty is a happy alternative to this new Feminism, because it opposes these unfortunately well-set social norms.
            A modern Feminist might see the Orthodox laws of modesty as an infringement to her right to free expression and equality. But in fact, modesty might be much more beneficial to the cause than any modern Feminist tactic. For one thing, modesty demands respect. A modest outward appearance insists that those who look upon you do so with much greater interest in your words and behaviors, that they look you in the eye. Equality cannot always be forced upon people. And if men cannot be cumulatively conditioned to look at a woman’s face rather than her body, then the obvious conclusion might be to eliminate their choice in the matter. And while it should be the responsibility of those with the lusty thoughts to control their eyes, and all other extraneous parts, it is the also the responsibility of women to acknowledge that their outward appearance (not limited to amount of skin showing!) has a large impact on those around them. Most female executives would not willingly choose to wear pajamas or running shorts to work, as they’d rightly fear their contemporaries wouldn’t take them seriously. The way we present ourselves is important. And by wearing shirts cut too low and skirts cut too short, a woman insinuates that she leads her social life in a certain unsavory way. It’s truly unfortunate that these stigmas don’t hold true for men. But nonetheless, they exist. And they cannot be ignored.
Many Feminists would also say that women have fought for years to be able to wear what they want when they want, and that we ought not regress to traditional ideologies. But truly, women do now possess the right to dress how they choose. A look through an Urban Outfitters catalogue suggests that wearing brassieres with miniskirts is now an entirely acceptable way to dress. But accompanying the right to choose is the responsibility to choose maturely. It’s ridiculous to suggest that every woman out there trade in her tank tops and shorts for ankle-length skirts and turtlenecks. However, a modern take on modesty could recommend shirts not delving too far into ones’ cleavage, and skirts not straying more than a few inches above the knee. And even then, those brave enough to cover themselves completely in a society obsessed with sex ought to be praised rather than persecuted.
Revealing clothing and risqué behavior are actually disempowering to women. We see in television programs and advertisements today that women are being hyper-sexualized. Corporations and pop-culture products, from Bratz and Barbie to The Bachelor and Age of Love, pose an enormous problem for women because they reduce them to consumers of a manufactured sexuality. Culture today depletes females’ self-esteem, and insists that they assimilate into an overtly sexual version of themselves in order to gain acceptance. Feminists should be fighting this nasty phenomenon, not propagating it. Modesty, whether spurred by religious leanings or personal ones, is a far better and far more traditionally pro-female philosophy than contemporary Feminist practices. 

The Long Con

You never think it will be as difficult as it is. Breaking up on good terms? Seems like a walk in the park. We had fun, circumstances changed, looks like it's goodbye. But in actuality it's shit. It hurts all the time, physically hurts. Turns out, our brains register a breakup just like physical pain. Apparently, this is because back in the olden times of survival of the fittest, being separated from your mate was considered too risky. Unfortunately, understanding the neuroscience behind this didn't actually make it hurt less.

I understood from the beginning that staying together would be illogical. We lived thousands of miles from each other: Boston and London, USA and UK. If we were to visit each other once every six months it would have been a feat. And we'd have to spend a good thousand bucks to do it. The time difference would mean we couldn't talk at normal times of day. He'd be at work all of my morning. I'd be at class and at work all of his night. Not to mention the fact that the long distance would be indefinite. Was I ready to move to London? Not so much. Was he willing to move to America? Not one bit. While we both discussed the prospect of moving to the other's home, it was never a genuine possibility. What about the risk? What if we broke up? What if we ended up resenting the other for forcing us to move to be with them?

Again, I'm not a moron. I knew the chances of all this working out somehow were slim to none. But finding out they were just plain none was horrible. At the moment of realization I cried uncontrollably, locked myself in the bathroom, couldn't look at his face. And we still had a week to go. So I pushed it out of my mind and reserved myself to make the most of what little time we had left. And I did a good job! We had fun, right up until our last night. That's when I combusted. It was his birthday; of course it was his birthday. And I found myself running around finding this and that to do for him- all the while spending very little time actually with him. Finally, he stopped me. It was a horrible moment when I realized that I'd been avoiding him. I knew if I really stopped, looked at him, anything, I'd break down. And I did. I spent the rest of the night crying. I find myself now regretting those couple of hours, really maybe three tops, where I subconsciously avoided him. Avoided feeling anything at all.

From that moment when I finally broke down, to the following night when I arrived back in my home country: that was the worst day of my life. I can say it with complete confidence. I've never been in that much pain, emotional or physical (though really it was both), over anything. The goodbye was drawn-out, excruciatingly so. I didn't want to say it but the longer he was in my line of sight, the longer I cried, hyperventilated really, with no foreseeable stop. We told each other that I would get into the security line and he would walk away, and we wouldn't look bad. We both looked. Of course we did. We loved each other. Still do. And for however much I was crying before, I managed to cry harder- all through the 45-minutes of security line. I got a lot of strange looks that day. Fortunately, I didn't give a fuck. I was too miserable.

I had 7 and a half hours of plane ride ahead of me, before my connection in Montreal. I don't remember what I watched. I put on one movie after another, but absorbed nothing. I just sat there and cried. It wasn't really continuous. That's just impossible. But I sat, and thought, and wallowed, and every few minutes would find tears streaming down my face. My seat-mate just loved me. I managed though, at the very least, to get myself to the bathroom in anticipation of the handful of times I began to hyperventilate and flat out bawl once more.

And when I got to Montreal, oh when I got to Montreal. They had me jump through 8 lines of security to get to my connecting flight. But the worst part was the realization within a few minutes of de-boarding that neither my international nor my American phone worked in fucking Canada. I needed to talk to him- now. Not after security. Not once I was back in the States. Right. Fucking. Now. This, in short, is how I managed to hysterically cry in two airports in one day. Arriving at La Guardia wasn't happy for me. I didn't want anything but to be back in London, back home.

I wish I had something to be angry about, other than purely the circumstances. To be honest, he never misled me. He took his good time telling me he loved me. Before the summer, he told me that he wasn't ready to try a long distance relationship, that any time I spent with him for the next few months wouldn't change that. I accepted this, agreed with him even. But I suppose all the while I was secretly convincing myself that he'd change his mind. I mean, of course I was. I loved- and still love- him and wasn't willing to just give up. That's why our reiteration of this conversation, a week before D-Day, hurt so badly. I was sure things had changed. They had for me. But apparently not enough.

I wish I could be angry at him for that. For being too scared to try. For not wanting to put real time into the relationship. For not thinking it's worth the pain of being apart to some day being together. I wish I could be angry about it, but really I'm just sad. I know he cared about me. I saw it that week before D-Day, when he thought I might leave him early and he broke down. But still, I loved him more than he loved me. That, or I was more courageous than he was. More willing to take the pain. I suppose it could have been both, or neither. According to him I should never doubt how much he loves me. I try not to. I really do.

The thing is, he and I just worked. I can't say we were perfect, no real couple is. But we made each other so happy. Our senses of humor meshed, our personalities were equal and opposite in many ways. We complemented each other so completely.We would laugh at all the same things, listen to the same music, watch the same tv shows and movies. I provided all the optimism his pessimism required. He grounded me. He made me feel taken care of, like I could be myself with him. Even if "myself" was much more childlike and girlish than I ever cared to let on to friends or family. I didn't have to put up a front or lie to him. We didn't fight. Once in a while we would piss each other off, but we'd discuss it close to immediately each and every time. I would tell him what I needed and he would provide it. He really, more than anything, wanted to make me happy. It was amazing to be with someone whose own personal happiness was so contingent on whether I was happy too.

Sometimes I don't think there will be a point where I'm over this. I think I'll just continue to be sad indefinitely. Most days I fantasize about him showing up at my brother's in laws or at my old high school teachers or at my apartment in Boston. In these fantasies he proclaims his love for me and tells me he can't live without me. He tells me he'll go wherever I go. Sometimes he even proposes. Maybe eventually my fantasies will become a reality?

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

A Funny Thing Happened to Me on My Way to TJ Maxx

Today I took a strange blind woman on a shopping trip.

Now, I hadn't met this woman at any previous time in my life. Even now, I don't know her last name. Her first name was Evelyn. As I stood perched on the corner of 6th and 21st, humming to myself, Evelyn hovered to my right. Walking stick in hand, moppy dark hair and all-black outfit, she apparently heard me humming loudly to myself (as I always do) and put her hand on my arm to get my attention. I looked over. She was middle-aged, Asian, and seemingly blind. Her eyes were closed tight.

Evelyn asked me if I could help her find TJ Maxx. I said, "Well actually, I'm on my way there right now, so we could go together if you like." And go together we did. We couldn't have spent more than half an hour together, and over that course of time she learned everything about me, and I nothing about her. She asked me about my school, my family, my plans for the future. She suggested I join a church choir as a networking tool.

At TJ Maxx, we boarded two escalators, walked through automatic doors, and located the "pants" section. There, she asked me to read to her several of the prices from the pants in her size. I did, and she determined that she didn't have that much money to spend on pants. She asked me if there were fitting rooms; there were. And we de-escalated back out of TJ Maxx. Evelyn said goodbye, turned around, and walked back uptown. I checked my bag for my wallet and phone. They remained intact.

And the moral of this story is: I need to get a check on my destructive humming habit.

Friday, January 4, 2013

I am Jewish Housewife, Hear Me Roar

Challah Baking.
It was something I'd never tried before.
Seemed daunting.
Well, didn't just seem.

Here's the recipe, passed on from a friend who makes the best challah on the planet:
(This recipe uses 2 1/2 lb of flour (about 10 cups), which makes at least 3 big challahs)










Acquire ingredients.




In a (small) bowl combine:
4 and 1/2 tspn dry yeast
1 Tblspn sugar
1/2 cup warm water

Set aside, let sit for about 10 minutes.








In a big bowl, combine:
2 eggs
1/2 Cup + 1 Tblspn oil
1 Tblspn salt
1/2 Cup + 1/3 cup sugar
2 1/2 lb. flour
1 1/2 Cup warm water
Add yeast mixture.

When all mixed cover the bowl with towel and let rise 1-2 hours.






Braid it.




Topping options...
Sweet Crumbs:
1 cup flour
3/4 cup sugar
Mix. Slowly add oil until desired consistency is reached.


OR

Brush with egg whites, get yourself that shiny fresh-out-the-bakery finish.

Now put that beautiful stuff in the oven, yo.

Bake at 350 for at least 40 minutes, but the timing isn't an exact science so check it often and take it out when it's browned.

Nom. To the max.
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First issue: For some reason, after I divided the dough into two bowls, one bowl rose quite well while the either was taking much longer. The yeast had been divided perfectly. I was very confused. So I took the unhappy dough over to the microwave. I took a mug filled with water and heated it in the microwave for 2 1/2 minutes, so it was just about boiling. Then I put the dough into the microwave with the heated water and let it sit. As it turned out, this helped it rise a good deal more.

Second issue: How many crumbs are really necessary? 1 cup of flour +3/4 cup of sugar made twice as many as I needed. I'd cut that in half.

Third issue: Baking at high altitudes is sort of a crap shoot. Recipe said 40 minutes.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

The Beautiful Maiden and the Cottage in the Woods

Once upon a time there was a beautiful maiden. All the eligible princes of the land yearned for her hand, but she was quite difficult to please. They brought her gifts of flowers and jewels, livestock and elixirs, silks and all the foreign delicacies one could imagine. But each and every gift she refused.

Frustrated with these lackluster lads, she hastily escaped from the watchful eyes of her guardians, out her bedroom window and off into the nearby forest. No moonlight shone down in that late hour, and as she wandered on she became afraid. A wolf howled from behind her and she felt eyes peering at her from every ghastly crevice of the thick wood. Starting to run, she quickly stumbled as her dress caught on a branch. Terrified, she looked up, only to see a small cottage enlightened by a low fire within. She entered cautiously and found inside an old woman.

"What brings you here, my dear?" the woman inquired. And the maiden replied, "The richest of the royals have asked for my hand, but they favor me only for my looks. I had to get away!" And with an eery smile the old woman exclaimed, "I have just the thing!"

So just as dawn broke above the mountains in the east, the maiden left the old woman's cottage quite differently than how she had entered it. Her face was now disfigured and ugly, warts strewn across her visage like a constellation in the sky.

"Finally!" she thought, "now I can find my one true love, who'll desire me for my intellect above all else, and who only then can be rewarded with my beauty!"

Unfortunately, the maiden overestimated her intellect. She had very little personality to speak of, and had significant troubles holding a conversation with anyone above the age of 6 or 7. Though she sought diligently for her one true love, she found not a one. And though she tried to return home, her family didn't recognize her, and thus rejected her. Finally, she resigned herself to make what little money she could by prostituting herself throughout the closest villages. She died just a few short years later of herpes-related complications. And as it turned out, her ugly face was quite permanent, even in death.

And the moral of this story, of course, is: Never turn down a perfectly good present.

Friday, December 21, 2012

The Pot Roast Recipe from the Gods

Start with the good stuff: prime boneless beef chuck. It helps to tie it with string.

Those Other Ingredients:

  • Onion (chopped, as much as you can fit in the pot)
  • Ketchup- just a bit
  • Worcester Sauce- just a bit
  • Garlic (fresh chopped and powder)- lots
  • Paprika- some
  • Salt and Pepper- plenty
  • A dash of Rosemary
  • A dash of Thyme
  • Pomegranate Juice- a whole bottle of it
  • Beef bullion- enough
  • *Baby carrots, celery, and red potato at your own discretion

This is why I love crockpots: take all the above ingredients and stick them in the pot. Place on low heat. Let cook for about 8 hours. Eat.

Ok, it's only slightly less complicated than this. For the potatoes one should wait until about 3 hours before serving, then put the potatoes into the pot. Otherwise they get overcooked.

Bonus Points! If you want to make a quick glaze for the roast, smother that hunk of meat in wine and a few tablespoons of flour about an hour before serving. You can't go wrong.

And yes, the pomegranate juice is the secret ingredient. Feel honored; I know I did.

In the end, you might just get something that looks like this:

Friday, December 14, 2012

When I'm an Elementary School Teacher, I'll Keep My Shotgun in my Desk

When I was in middle school I saw the documentary Bowling for Columbine for the first time. As a 12 year old, I was both outraged and confused. While every teenager I've ever met detests high school at some points, I couldn't imagine someone hating it so much that they'd prepare and enact a plan to kill their fellow students. In high school we would have practice lockdowns several times a year, where we'd crouch in the corner of a darkened classroom behind locked doors, and the local police department would go door to door ensuring that we'd retreated correctly. I didn't understand the point, since nothing like that would ever happen in my town.



Now I'm a junior in college and I've witnessed the worst school shooting in recent history, at an elementary school. This is something I cannot accept. News sources are saying 27 are dead at this small-town suburban K-4 school, 18 children. But how is the media going to explain this one to us? What kind of justification will they give us for an adult setting out to terrorize and slaughter children? When I learned about the Columbine massacre, even as a "tweenager" the first thought that came to me was that guns should be outlawed. This thought formed more fully as I grew older: the only citizens that should be able to legally acquire guns are police officers and military.

I understand the debilitating features of my plan. Pro-second amendment morons often complain that if guns are taken away from the law-abiding citizens, the criminals will of course still have them and use them against the "good" Americans. But research has shown that in cases when an armed intruder entered a home of gun-owners, the gun-owners were more likely to shoot themselves than the criminal. I also understand that enforcing such a law would be vastly expensive and nearly impossible. But can you really put a price on protecting our children? Gun advocates iterate again and again: "People kill people, not guns." But you know what? The guns make it a hell of a lot easier. The CT murderer today would not have massacred nearly as many innocent children as he did if he'd been stripped of his weapons. Guns distance the killer from the victim in a way that is unacceptable; if someone wants another human being dead so badly that they'd commit the murder themselves, they better damn well do it personally, because we're talking about people, not livestock. Mass murder would not be possible without guns. It's as simple as that.

How can we ensure our kids will be safe? It's simple. Either no one can have a gun, or everyone must be required to carry one. Which of these extremes seems more likely?



Lately I've been narrowing down potential career options, and I've come to the conclusion that I'd be happiest teaching elementary school. Children of that age are the most fun. They're creative and curious, eager to learn and socialize. In my opinion there is no such thing as an evil child. But there are evil men; there are evil adults. So if and when I find myself teaching 1st grade in a suburb of New York City, I plan to keep a firearm in my desk. Because I'll be fucking damned if I'm going to let anyone hurt a bunch of innocent children just because they feel like it.