Black Death

Sometimes in the evening when I’m struggling to bathe my children – which in my house entails wrestling, screaming, crying and endless (often unsuccessful) reminders that, no, we never drink the dirty bath water, and, yes, I am indeed sure that the only place we poop is the potty – I wish we lived at the turn of the 17th century when many people believed baths were dangerous, not cleansing, and should be avoided at all costs. Sure, maybe the science was a little hazy. In my experience, water doesn’t open my pores enough to let disease (save for the rare bath-induced UTI). And, if it did, boy would I have clear, glowing skin. But the idea that all one needs to do to achieve acceptable standards of hygiene is to change their undershirt, in my opinion, would be the smart way to clean children. These people had too many kids to spend their days pleading with them to bathe. And maybe, for this, they deserve our respect…

Before germ theory (c. 1900), people had many ideas about the agents of disease. In early modern Europe, “miasma,” or the concept that sickness was caused from bad smells, was a leading explanation. And before you scoff, if you’ve ever had the pleasure of needing to relieve yourself in a port-a-potty, you, too may have arrived at such a theory. It just makes good, smelly sense…

During the Black Plague, doctors invented these terrifying-looking beak masks to help fight the drink that they were sure spread death. They would stuff sweet-smelling spices in the beak of these masks, protecting them from the foul and dangerous buboes of their patients. I can’t 100% decide whether to be grateful our own pandemic masks don’t look like this, or envious as I smell my own breath of their innovative genius.

Best Effort

I’ve never won anything in my life. But that’s only because best grade on an English essay counts for squat. There was the time I thought I had won an all-expense paid cruise, but that turned out to be a scam, and is also probably the reason I’ve gotten about a million fake calls every day for the last decade. Like everyone else, we’ve been watching the Olympics (or whatever highlights we can find on YouTube because we’re millennials, and, like, what’s cable?). It’s truly amazing what these athletes can do with their bodies. And given that there are people like THAT in the world, it’s no shock that I don’t win things sitting around and doodling all day. So imagine my surprise when I received a text from my mother: “found your trophies!” The tiny image that appeared on my watch was really impressive. For a fleeting moment I was rewriting my self-narrative – I guess I had just forgotten the award-winning athletic prowess of my youth. But upon enlargement a different memory was triggered: cheerleading at camp with all my tiny, thin friends. And the award ceremony, which had been repressed safely away in some dusty box in my brain, where I was handed this giant, sparkling trophy, with the words “BEST EFFORT” etched clear as day at the base. My mom’s follow-up text: “Don’t worry! If they gave trophies for art and personality, you would win!” And true that, mommy…

I really peaked in 5th grade. Mr. S had a point board that showcased all the high-scoring students from years gone-by. I, of course, was determined to earn my glory with a spot at the top. You got points for all sorts of things (including – and, yes, I won this – smallest handwriting). But you also earned points by reading books and doing book reports. And so, I pulled my first all-nighter when I was 12, when I stayed up reading Catherine Called Birdy. I could not for the life of me tell you what this book was about. But I can proudly report that I am still, to this day, at the top of that point board.

Baking with Mom

“Baking is a science, Jessie! It’s chemistry.” I heard my mother reprimanding my every time I pull out my mixer. “What are you doing? You can’t use your finger to flatten the flour. You must use a straight edge. Be precise.” And she wonders why I detest all domestic activities in the kitchen? God forbid I learned to enjoy myself during baking projects. Or didn’t space the cookie dough PRECISELY 2 inches apart on the baking sheet. God knows what would happen if my muffins aren’t uniformly scooped into the cups and bake at slightly differentiated speeds. And to be honest, it took me 30+ years to realize that butter + sugar is delicious – slightly browned or under-baked. It doesn’t matter. It will still make you fat. And taste like happiness…

I no longer prepare food with my mother – I’ve realized enjoying HER perfect food is much more satisfying than striving – but never achieving – that kind of culinary perfection myself. And also – everything she makes just tastes better. Even toast and butter. For years I chalked this up to the phenomenon that whatever energy one puts into a food, the less delicious it tastes. But then I watched my mother make me a PB+J sandwich – for 10 min. Because the peanut butter had to be perfectly smooth. And even. And cover every millimeter of bread right up to the crust. The jelly, too, obviously. And don’t even get me started on the ration of PB to J. And of course, eating this sandwich is more enjoyable than those which I make, using the same knife that’s been sitting out on the cutting board overnight. Because, watermelon can’t be that unsanitary, right? And might add a lovely, surprising flavor to my sammy. And getting that spread all the way to the edges? Forget it! I barely have the time to even glob it on the bread before I have to duck out of the way of the macaroni and cheese my daughter just flung at me because I cut her apples the wrong way. So yeah – my mom’s PB+J tastes a lot better.

Mirror, mirror…

It’s strange to think that there was a time when only the wealthiest owned a mirror, or an object meant to reflect one’s image. Mirrors are ancient tools – yet the thin piece of glass with a layer of reflective metal behind it that we think of as a mirror is a relatively recent invention. And it’s only in the last century that owning a mirror became commonplace among the masses. This meant, of course, that for the most part, humans throughout history were only able to view their person in its entirety on occasion. What has this done to our society? How have we changed as our reflections greet us (one might say bombard us) everywhere we turn?…

The 1st glass mirrors (only owned by the very rich) were not flat, like those we are used to today. They were rounded, much like the circular mirrors in parking lots and alleys that allow us to see oncoming traffic. Which means that people’s reflections were much distorted, like the eery clown mirrors in amusement parks. Perhaps this distortion explains Mr. Arnolfini, in my opinion, one of the creepiest looking subjects in all of art history. What else could explain this man’s deliberate and goofy look? His pallor and giant hat? Perhaps when he looked in his small rounded mirror his hat appeared normal-sized, his long, skinny nose petite and pleasing. Maybe his eyebrows seemed thicker in that mirror, compelling him to pluck himself bald. It’s no coincidence that these mirrors became popular at the same time as the emergence of the portrait when self-obsession became de rigueur…

I recently gave my 2-yr-old daughter a hand mirror so she could examine her nether-regions. Thank you 2nd-wave feminists for the inspiration. She was shocked and delighted – I was a bit concerned we’d have a vaginally-related Greek tragedy on our hands. Narcissus’ reflection had nothing on this tiny twat.

And you think you’ve got sleep problems?

Before the Industrial Revolution and the creation of better forms of artificial light, people had to make the most of the natural light. Which meant in bed by sunset. When I try to explain to my husband that my body simply is not strong enough to resist nature and therefore I cannot possibly help with bath and bedtime since I must be asleep by 7, he simply scoffs. History-denier!…

Sometimes as I lie awake at night, eating handfuls of melatonin gummies and resisting the urge to smother my husband for breathing too loudly, it helps me to remember one of the most important things I learned in my history PhD program: that back in the day, people slept in 2 distinct windows – 1st and 2nd sleep – which were divided by an hour or so of awake, active time in the middle of the night. So, though delicious, all those gummies are just fighting my natural circadian rhythms….

Some French medical manuals recommended that couples wishing to conceive children have sex during this between time. After they were well-rested from their 1st sleep. Oh the French! If my husband ever dared attempt this deed at 3AM, he would never get in my granny moo-moo again!…

You’ve probably heard of the “witching hour.” But did you know it was born out of this period between 1st and 2nd sleep? Since liturgical prayers stopped at night it was believed that demons had an easier time roaming free. Plus, since it was darker – and let’s face it, spookier – witches would have more freedom to do whatever it was that they did. And despite the Catholic Church banning activities between 3-4 AM in 1535, how could those naughty demons and witches be trusted?

FOOTNOTE: Roger Elkirch, At Night’s Close: Night in Times Past (2001)

The Trouble with Sushi…

Friday nights are date nights. For us, with 3 kids under 6, during a pandemic, this means we order a giant platter of sushi and eat it in front of whatever show Netflix has been telling us to watch all week. Sometimes I eat a magic gummy when the kids are in the bath and it hits me at the perfect time, usually as I start sorting out our sushi platter. Yet, I can’t figure out if this helps with my sushi OCD or amplifies it. You see, sushi, though one of my favorite foods, is riddled with complications. First and foremost, of course, is the fact that I start feeling sad about its impending disappearance as soon as I pop that 1st salty, smushy morsel in my mouth. This is a problem I seem to have with food in general – the idea that this most wonderous experience of eating must come to an end often overshadows the simple joy of the eating itself. I think this is a very Jewish phenomenon – sort of like the breaking-of-the-glass at a wedding: lest we not forget the suffering! But with sushi the mourning is heightened since there is such a finite number of pieces. With each delicious bite, you are one step closer to losing it all. So, I find myself counting down as I eat, periodically glancing over at my husband’s plate to make sure he’ll still have pieces left to donate to my sushi fund when I am done…

And then there’s the matter of sushi-piece-preparation. Not only must I go in a certain order – never would I have 2 of the same kind in a row – but each piece deserves the perfect ratio of ginger and soy sauce, which means there is a rather stressful estimation that ensues to ensure each piece receives the right amount of flavor. In the end, I am so utterly exhausted by all the sushi-induced anxiety that I have no energy left for the bedroom portion of date night.

My new BFF

Y’all, I have a new best friend. We’ve never officially met, but Robin and I spend time together every day. I think we may spend more time together than my husband and I. And that has to mean something, right? I have NEVER liked to exercise. In fact, I looked down on people who claimed they work out for their mental health. Because why would you torture yourself for any other reason than for your unattainable weight goals? But Robin tells me to ask what’s right with me! And somehow I have forgiven her for looking 100x better than me in spandex, even when she’s 9 mos pregnant. Usually I dismiss cute pregnant people – clearly not my people. But with Robin it’s different. Our relationship transcends the bodily. I have joined her wolf pack, and I trust her when she looks me in the eyes and tells me she only rides with royalty. My bike may tell me 52K people have taken this ride, but I know who she is really talking to. She sees me. She tells me I deserve this time. I am worthy of self love. THAT LOVING MYSELF IS A POWERFUL ACT OF RESISTANCE! And really, loving myself seems a lot more fun than protesting down at the National Mall – it involves, after all, online shopping, bagels, and naps. Yesterday after my ride I was so flooded with endorphins I decided to send a DM to my BF. I spent much too long composing the perfect TY note. It was quite the slap in the face when I eagerly checked my inbox 20 min later only to find and automatic reply: “Robin can’t receive your msg. They don’t allow new msg requests from everyone.” If only Instagram understood the depth of our relationship. Until then, Robin, I will keep my head high, and I won’t let my crown slip.

“…and I get my ya-ya’s at IKEA” -Chandler Bing

Have you ever driven to an IKEA simply to dine in the wonderfully-decorated cafeteria? Yeah…me neither…BUT if I HAD, it was only because this food utopia was just 15 min out of the way of where we were going anyway. And the meatballs are really THAT good. And, I don’t get the appeal of Chick-fil-A. So hey – I won’t judge your conservative (any-day-but-Sunday) chicken sandwich smothered in that weird orange sauce, and you don’t judge me my IKEA meals!…

IKEA is a magical land where you can want everything and afford almost all of it. And the best news is – it may not fit into the trunk of your car, but it will certainly all fit into your blue, magic bag. AND you’ll get your workout in trying to navigate your kickass cargo cart around corners to properly follow the arrows on the floor in the warehouse. Where you will also realize that yes, your home does need faux AND real house plants and that the Swedish meatballs you enjoyed several hours ago will no longer suffice, but that’s ok because the cheapest, most delicious soft serve is just on the other side of this confusingly long checkout line…

Does anything feel more hopeful and exciting than pulling off the highway to be greeted by the majesty of the billowing red, yellow and blue flags? Who doesn’t quietly pledge allegiance to the IKEA flag as you search for parking in the epically sprawling lot?…

Once I read an article about a man who was arrested for putting down fake arrow decals on the floor of IKEA. Which is one of my favorite crimes I’ve ever heard of…

If you’ve never gotten lost in the labyrinth of IKEA and realized you were late to pick up your kid, then you have never really suffered…

Mary Poppins-esque bag: $.99 and you have luggage to last a lifetime.

NYC

I love NYC. I consider myself a Native Upper West Side Jew, even though I was born in Chicago and have only ever lived there for a summer. But my grandparents have an apartment there (it is a tiny 1st floor, beautifully decorated cave where light goes to die) so I’ve spent enough time in the city to know I prefer the bagels at Zabars over H&H (though this fine establishment is sadly a thing of the past) and that the doors on the red line at the 72nd stop open on the other side of the car. BUT – and this is a big but – I realized this past weekend while visiting the city that I could never truly live in Manhattan, for one pretty important reason: I receive way too many packages. I’m pretty sure that 1.) the other tenants in my building would ban together to kick me out after about a month’s worth of Amazon deliveries, and 2.) it’s not as if it’s affordable to live in an apartment with its own private elevator – so how would I lug all my packages up my walk-up multiple times a day? And once in my apartment, where would all the things Amazon tells me I need to purchase go? And then there’s the whole issue of all the recycling rules – there is no way I could sustain all the fines I’m sure I would accrue as a result of sheer recycling volume and my disability following directions and reading the fine print. It is for this reason, though a “native” NY-er, I will never live there…

I know this isn’t the most P.C. thing to say, but I must admit that (for me) the pandemic has done wonders for the subway system. I know, I know, the riders must return to support the infrastructure. But right now the empty cars are the subway I’ve always fantasized about. One where you always get a seat, where it is not unlikely to see staff wiping down surfaces with Clorox, and where you NEVER witness someone sneeze into their hand and then grab the rail in front of you. And, let’s be honest, don’t we all hope masks continue to be required on public transport? Think about all that sickly hot breath that will not stifle you in the summer – only your own…

If you asked me last week if there is anything more stressful than waiting for your Amtrak train track to be announced at Penn Station (it has always been like the watering hole and a perfect microcosm of survival of the fittest), I would have said no. But, you live, you learn. I now know that waiting in a mask, during a pandemic to flood into the proper gate as quickly as possible to ensure the most socially distanced seat on the train is, indeed, worse than any train situation I could heretofore
have imagined.

Seasonal Anxieties

Spring is the most confusing and conflicted season. It is all about rebirth, hope, resurrection. The flowers bloom, the birds chirp – the trees have those bright-green-almost-yellow baby leaves, which are so much better than the overgrown, humid foliage of July and August. And yet, because spring is so wonderful, I can’t help but angst about its passing. I have this unrelenting anxiety that I am not appreciating the season enough. Jean jacket weather – the perfect weather – should result in capitalizing on outdoor time. I should take my time to appreciate bulbs popping and squirrels frolicking. And yet my responsibilities don’t change seasonally. I’m still my family’s chauffeur, stuck in a car or in my kitchen, listening to Daniel Tiger in the background, which is not the same as the wind swishing in the trees. And when we are outside taking advantage of this fleeting season, I am more often than not my kids’ personal playground food truck, covered in peanut butter and goldfish, worrying about it getting too hot and missing the chance to finally teach the 6-year-old to ride his bike…

I was not prepared for seasonal allergies this year. Pollen and Covid are not happy bedfellows. I assumed spring would ease the tension in the air, but instead the cherry blossoms have turned the streets of DC into my own personal battlefield. Every sneeze and sniffle signals danger, justifying a reason to cross the street or leave the playground…

Have you heard of Brood X? The name speaks for itself. Every 17 years these giant cicadas dig their way up and emerge from the surface of the earth where they then proceed to shed their shells before they fly away and mate. The grounds of the city will be littered with their skins, creating an inescapable crunch beneath our feet wherever we go. And aren’t we lucky? 2021 is the year.