Burn-out

Hi! How are you?

Thanks to doing the crazy hours thing for over a year, complete with a ramp up into “life-blasting” hours levels over the last six months, I am now officially burned out. At this point, all I want to do is curl up in fetal position under a blanket and cry. I have not done so for two reasons. First, while my office does feature the beanbag I commandeered from my company’s beanbag room (now devoid of any beanbags thanks to everyone commandeering them for their offices and therefore more properly termed “the very ugly bomb shelter”), it does not have a blanket. And you know, it’s just not the same without the blanket.

To illustrate, using excel:

With blanket:

Without blanket:

Second, even according to my admittedly shockingly lax standards, engaging in either one of the above at the office would be really unprofessional.

As a result, I have had no other option but to continue working, though I do spice it up with grouchiness, self-pity and projecting a general atmosphere of doom , gloom and clinical depression.

I feel bad for my co-workers.

On the bright side, see the boots I am wearing in the above pictures? They are new! Aren’t they nice? They—together with the other three pairs of boots I bought this winter—are the one light in my life right now. Excel would be a light in my life but for the fact that it was being very naughty this week when I was trying to create some graphs. Things are still not 100% between us. It happens.

All Vows

Hello! Happy January! Do you know January means? January means that it is time for me to start obsessing about what I am going to do for Pesach.

Perhaps you are confused. Perhaps you are saying to yourself “what is Pesach?” “Pesach” is Passover, otherwise known as the time we Jews all go stark raving mad and eat crackers for a week. Or perhaps you are saying to yourself “Nu, I know what Pesach is! And that Pesach is MONTHS away!” Well, yes! Exactly! I have to escape. And to escape I have to buy a ticket. And given that approximately 70% of the country chooses to observe Pesach by fleeing from the country (an act which actually has more in common with our ancestors' flight from Egypt than does sitting on our asses and eating massive amounts of food…but I digress), I have to figure out where the hell I am fleeing to and I have to buy my ticket right now. Because otherwise the only tickets left will be for places like Egypt. And as wonderfully ironic as that destination might be, if local crazies denouncing and attacking one another over religious and racial differences is what I am looking for, I really do not need to travel.

But travel I must because I have to escape. I have to escape because I took an oath to do so last summer, as part of a dating seminar. I took an oath because the seminar people made me. As part of the seminar, in addition to having to close our eyes and listen to happy clappy mantras accompanied by a guitar, we were also required to set a deadline, as in: I will be engaged by XYZ date. My XYZ date was Pesach. I chose Pesach because:

1. they made me choose a date—they really and truly would not take no for an answer;
2. at that time Pesach was sufficiently far away that my expecting that engagement could happen was more or less credible and
3. I absolutely loathe Pesach and thought that getting engaged might make the holiday slightly less odious.

But at the same time, as my friends pointed out, what if I got engaged and/or married some asshole JUST in order to meet that deadline? Now, I know I am going to come across as a snarky and bitter spinster here. But, for fuck's sake--I have made it to 40 without doing anything quite so stupid and deranged as getting married just to meet an arbitrary societal or personal deadline. Is this really a risk factor? But, whatever. To defend myself and the holiday from any potential debilitating weakness of character, I set up two parallel goals. The goals look like this:

(See? Beautifully parallel, no? I did this in excel. Isn’t excel great? I adore excel.)

Anyway, so, here we are, four months before Pesach and I am not dating. This makes the chances that I am going to be engaged by Pesach rather low. So I thought “well, sign up for the Two Oceans Half Marathon and book your ticket for South Africa”. But then I thought “But Gila, you are already registered for the Jerusalem Half Marathon. Do you really want to do another marathon?” And the answer is “well, no, not really". So now I have to find something else to do.

Decisions, decisions....

Blind Date Question Survey

First dates are awkward. BLIND first dates can be a little slice of hell. Unless, of course, one can find a way to liven things up a bit. And, you know, make the evening that much less torturous for all concerned.

That is where these questions come in. Forget about "do you have siblings" or "are you the oldest or the youngest in your family" or "why did you make aliyah" or "why did you decide to become an actuary?" All of us who have found ourself going the blind date route have asked and been asked those questions a bazillion times (well maybe not the actuary one). Not only are we all sick of asking and answering them but...really...tell me, do you care about the answer? No, you do not. Nor does anyone else. Maybe the first date or two or three. But now? Not a chance. Each date just blends in with the next.

So...I would like to reject the standard questions. I want different questions. Questions that would make you smile, if someone asked you that on a date. Silly questions. Quirky questions. Interesting questions. Questions that might (gasp) reveal your personality. Questions that will put you both sufficiently at ease that each of you will be able to assess "do I like this person" and "do I like this person enough to go out with them again and ask the questions we 'should' be asking on date one".

Because--and I realize I should not be saying this because I am an accountant and you know what they say about people in glass houses but nonetheless--I think it is fair to say that if you spend more than 15 seconds discussing being an actuary, the answer to the above questions is likely to be no.

And...you know...we go on so many of these dates. Is it really so heretical, so unthinkable that they might be made...fun

Results--assuming I get a decent number--will be posted on this blog.

Link to the survey page.

Killing the ג'וק

First, a Hebrew lesson: a ג'וק (juk) is a cockroach and ג'וקים בראש (jukim b'rosh)—cockroaches in the head is…. Oh, how the hell do you translate it? Like, ummm, bees in the bonnet. But not.

Second, an update. I went to the reunion. There were a few odd moments. Like the one in which a fellow alum waved his arm in the direction of the collection of small children in attendance and announced “look what we have accomplished in nine years”. There was also, as expected, the wry description of how “X corrects my Hebrew all the time”. But, nonetheless, I had a nice time. I caught up with people I have not seen in years. I tickled small children. I even had the opportunity to chat with X, who is a most pleasant child. He corrected my Hebrew.

Third, my actual post. I do not know if anyone really caught this amidst the whining, but in my last post I mentioned that I asked a guy out. Did you note that? No? Well, then let us try this again. I asked a man out on a date.

Great—so now that we are all on the same page, it is time to discuss. Now, a experienced person, a discerning person, a person who is a Woman of the World…say…my friend Ellie, might see my asking a guy out as a very bad idea, or at least an ineffective one. "גבר שרוצה, עושה", “A man who wants, does”, is one of her favorite mantras. If he wanted you, he would go after you. He does not go, he does not want. Very simple, very easy.

I agree with Ellie. I agree with her 100%. Up to the age of…say…19? 20? 21? (whatever age they stop being afraid of women) go ahead and ask him out. He will be profoundly grateful. Because you (and pretty much every other woman) scare the living shit out of him. But after that? He may be flattered, but if he were interested…he would have already called you.

The next question is pretty obvious: if this is what I believe why on earth did I ask a man out? The answer: because I expected him to say no.

(The guy I asked out also found this quite confusing, when I was explaining it to him the other day. “Wait...let me get this straight. You asked me out because you thought I would say no?”)

Really—and as I tried to explain to the guy—it is all very logical. If you have a ג'וק בראש , kill it.

Say you like a guy. Now, there are two possible scenarios. One—the guy likes you back. Two—he does not. If he likes you back, eventually, he may ask you out on a date and all will be hunky dory until you discover that really, wow, you cannot stand him. However, if he does not like you back, you will continue to moon over the guy for a year or two or three, painting him in your head as Prince Fucking Charming, and dreaming of the day that he will look at you and see the Love of His Life.

This is not going to happen. I mean, this is SO not going to happen. As such, this is NOT a good use of your time or your brain power. Perhaps you are also making a spectacle of yourself with (really sad and ineffectual) flirting? And you are all but throwing yourself at the guy? And you are doing this in front of other people? No no no…this cannot continue. It is imperative— you must kill that juk. All you have to do is ask the guy out on a date. He may or may not be gracious in his response. He may or may not act weird around you for the rest of time. But he will say no. And then you will have your answer and will be able to go on with your life and find someone else to obsess about.

Unless he says “yes”.

This confuses matters immensely.

For instance, you may find yourself, on a date, trying to explain to someone that you do not actually think he is a cockroach. And that yes, even though you did sort of compare him to one, you would not say no if he were to call you for another date.

(Really, I swear, normally this process works just like I said it does.)

Ulpan Reunion

Today is Friday, July 09, 2010. The time is 8:00 AM. Five hours from now, I am slated to go to a reunion of my Ulpan Etzion class. These are the people who, like me, made aliyah (immigration to Israel) in July 2001 and started off their adventure with the five month Ulpan Etzion Hebrew immersion program complete with residency in the Ulpan Etzion dormitories. Since the program ended and we each left the dormitories, we have scattered all over the country. Recently, one of the group sent out an email. “Hey guys, it has been nine years! Let’s celebrate”. And I, without thinking, immediately responded ‘count me in’.

Or out, as the case may be. Because I am still not sure I am going to show up.

Background. At least back in 2001, the Ulpan Etzion dormitories were limited to single olim (immigrants) between the ages of 20 and 35. Let’s do some math. I am an accountant. We like math, yes? So, let us say you start with a group of single 20-35 year olds. If you add 9 years, you should end up with a bunch of married 29-44 year old parents, correct? And, indeed, that is what happened. Except for in my case. No husband. No kids. Not even any long-term relationships; my dating record is shockingly, laughingly, sparse. Hell—I was supposed to go on a date last night and got stood up. And the only reason I had a date to get stood up on is because I asked the guy out myself.

Truly. Pathetic.

So how can I go? How can I go and see everyone and their spouses and their kids? How can I go and listen to everyone talk about their lives, their homes, their spouses, their children? How can I listen to them talk and compare notes and as they do so, check off the milestones of a life lived in Israel? The trips each one took with his or her spouse before he or she was a spouse. What the children are doing. This one is now in Bnei Akivah; that one starts gan next week; the three year old that corrects the parent’s Hebrew. What they do for the hagim.

This is the life I wanted. This is the life I did not get. This is the life I missed out on.

How can I go and feel myself surrounded by pity mixed with a good dose of contempt. “Well, of course Gila is still single”. Because even if they really and truly are not thinking that—even if it would never occur to anyone to think that—even if everyone is genuinely surprised to find that I am still single, I will know that they are really thinking “yeah, no surprise there”.

Nine years gone. What do I have to show for it? Yes, I have had some success professionally. I am happy about this. However, without trying to discount either my achievements or the hard work that went into them, I strongly doubt that my fellow alumni are clearing tables. At this point, I am guessing that pretty much everyone has found his professional niche.

But, one could argue, I was in a bombing!

Because that, of course, is such an accomplishment.

The time is now 9:00 AM. I still do not know if I am going to the reunion.

Conversation at Shabbat Lunch

You know, every time I have one of these conversations at a Shabbat lunch, it seems to end badly. You would think that I would learn. But I never do.

Me: I just signed up for the Alyn Ride!

Friend: That is great!

Me: Yeah....round number three. This year should be better than the last one. I learned stuff.

Friend: Such as?

Me: One—train. Doing a five day bike ride when you are not in shape is no fun. Two—do not go down hills on your face.

Friend: Those are good things to know.

Me: AAAAAAAND….the moment we get to Jerusalem on the last day of the ride—go straight home. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Do not go to the celebratory closing ceremony at the hospital. Giant shofars, tearjerking and melodrama. Not my idea of a good time. Vile.

Friend: Ahhh….the closing ceremony. That is where they roll out the kids with the wheelchairs? Parade them around a bit?

Me: Yeah, exactly. AWFUL! Of course, a lot of the riders visit the hospital and all that. I do not. I do not volunteer there. I have not even done the tour. . I figure—I am raising money all summer—that should be enough.

Friend: I get it. I mean, you do not want to actually have to see them.

Me: No…it is not like that. It is just…difficult.

Friend: No, I understand! They should keep them locked up. Away from us normal people. Where we cannot see them. And get grossed out by the cripples.

Me: AAAAAEEEEEIIIIII!!!!! Stop! Stop! I admit it! I am a horrible person.

Of course, he did not stop. I mean, this was far too good to let go. No, he just continued on in this vein for the next few minutes.

Right then, so my tour of Alyn is this Tuesday morning. Set it up first thing Sunday morning. After which I promptly sent the friend an email to let him know that his guilt trip had worked. Bastard. I bet his kids are all, like, traumatized and all that. They just seem happy and well-adjusted.

Oh, and I realize that morally, I am pretty much on the level of Hitler. But if despite this, you want to sponsor me, you can do so here.

So THAT'S why she never sets me up

Conversation with my stepmother (who I love dearly, BUT...well, you will see)

Me: I went out with a friend today. She is a amazing photographer and took some shots of me. Once she sends them to me, I am going to give Jdate another try. Maybe this time I will actually score a date with a nice guy. [Read: decent, normal, interesting, intelligent, age appropriate, gainfully employed, attractive, not a what's-his-story or some other problematic variety of male, does not sport a combover or a bald-in-front-mullet-in-back hairstyle and so on and so forth].

Stepmother: Well, you will go out with a nice guy and then you will decide that there is something wrong with him.

Me: Umm...why do you think this? When have I done this? [Having heard this multiple times in the past I am curious as to why she has this impression of me. I mean, I get so few dates--it is not like I am flush with chances to dump nice guys].

Stepmother: Well, there was that lawyer. From Newark.

Me: [Baffled--lawyer? From Newark? No...she can't possibly mean X. But I have not dated any other lawyers. I guess she does.] You mean the one from Philadelphia?

Stepmother: Maybe it was Philadelphia.

Me: You mean the one I dated 20 years ago? When I was 20?

Stepmother: Oh, has it been 20 years?

Me: Even if I was picky and capricious in breaking up with him--which I wasn't--that was 20 years ago! And he did not want to date me anymore either.

Stepmother: Oh. Okay then.

And, for what it is worth--rather than wait with me for the AAA truck, this paragon of male virtues left me by myself in a parking lot late at night when it turned out my car battery was dead and I needed a charge. So...not so nice.