All Dressed Up

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Interesting that my last blog post was exactly 10 kilos ago! That's how I measure time now. 10 kilos ago - 22 lbs ago! 

I have been busy changing my life. Now that the dust is settling and routine is rearing its ugly head I will get back to writing.  I'm here for just a few moments so that you don't forget me. 

Since my gastric sleeve surgery 16 months ago, I have lost 41 kilos - that's 90 pounds. I will repeat that... I have lost 90.2 pounds. 

I also now wear horizontal stripes!! Please don't hate me. It just happened by accident. I was shopping at Mood in NYC for fabric to make a shirt in my sewing class (more on that another time). I chose an abstract design with the suggestion of vertical stripes. Yadda yadda yadda, turns out they were horizontal stripes! And no! You can't just work with the fabric in any direction you choose! 

I'm not going to change the name of the blog, however all the references to my old name behind the scenes on this platform may be partly responsible for keeping me away. I'm also not going to post a new picture yet. I will save it for whatever new platform I migrate to. 

In a nutshell, here's what it feels like to be me now...

• I can get dressed in 5 minutes. The remaining 85 minutes which I had allotted myself for getting ready for work go to nothing in particular and I enjoy it very much. 
• I do not fear getting out of deep, cushy sofas.
• I am not on a diet.
• I walk into any clothing store I want.  I often walk out before browsing more than one rack because the music sucks, not because the clothes won't fit. 
• I cross my legs a lot. Not because it's comfortable. Just because I can.
• I have discovered my rib cage. 
• I have discovered my undercarriage.
• I own a little black dress (!)
• Full length mirrors are my friend. Magnifying mirrors up to my face in a well lit room are not. 
• I am obsessed with outerwear, now that I can winter without feeling like Ursa Major.
• I get stabbing gas pains from cabbage.
• I don't dread going to the gym, but I don't love it either. 
• I eat a lot of protein. 
• I miss having big boobs but I'll live.
• I can probably jog but have no interest in trying.
• I can wear tights and sneakers to run errands and still feel pretty.

The list goes on, but lest you suspect that everything is peachy, I mostly feel like I'm all dressed up with no place to go.

So for now, please accept this sign of life from me as a virtual hug. Thanks for all the encouragement. Love you one and all. 

Don't Call Us, We'll Call You...

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This is what I do when someone I like doesn't answer my call... 

1. I call everyone I know who won't answer my call.
2. Then I call everyone who was a passing ship in the night - just to drive it home.
3. Then I will write texts that I know won't get answered. 
4. Then I will wallow in self-pity.

Somewhere between points 2 and 3 I remind myself that I'm better than this. By point 4 I have forgotten. 

There used to be a point 5 which alternated between buying a small appliance and eating ice cream. At my worst, they coincided. 

Now I count to 10 and indulge in a few moments of quiet reflection. 

Voila! I no longer am afraid of my own reflection! Literally! Let's go look in the mirror!!

My butt is white-girl small.

My chest bones are visible (do they have a name other than "those-bones-that-every-fat-woman-notices-on-skinny-women"?)

My hair looks well above average. 

So what if I haven't met that guy that not only wants to be with me, but I want to be with him? 

A world of opportunity is before me. 

I have shed 31 kilos so far. 

Just to be clear. 

It is not the skinny me that suddenly has opportunities that fat me didn't. It is skinny me that is shedding burdens, baggage, and every possible cliche, because I am creating opportunity. 

I am taking drastic, life changing steps to shed my debt.

Soon I will emerge a tabula rasa of sorts, never too old to start over, never too old to remake myself, never too old to correct wrongs. 

I am not quite there yet. 

But for the time being I am enjoying sitting cross-legged on a bar stool without rolling off.

Groucho was Right.

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Someone wants to have coffee with me tonight.

I had one conversation with him last night and he called me this morning.

In the course of the next few hours I will determine everything that is wrong with him.

After all, he wants to have coffee with me.

It matters little that I saw him on a dating site and I wrote to him. He answered. So something is wrong with him.

What does it matter that he turned out to be a lawyer who enjoys travelling, theater and cinema and wants to be in a relationship? He answered. So something must be wrong with him.

Here is everything that is wrong with him so far:

1.      He told me he would call me at 10pm and he did.

2.      He coughed twice.

3.      He used the speaker on his phone.

4.      He asked me if I like Israel.

5.      He asked me if I like to dance.

6.      He asked me if I go to a gym.

7.      He was impressed that I am at work at 8am

I am one step away from Elaine's famous breakup over punctuation.

Do I really want to be in a club that would have me as a member?

I'll let you know when my self-esteem gets the memo from my new thinner self advising of the changes.

Horizontal Stripes

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Yesterday I almost bought a shirt with horizontal stripes. 

"Almost" being the operative word here, it's not fair to buy Horizontal Stripes without a nod to my readers.  However few you may be, you are loyal.

I soon celebrate 3 months of Gastric Sleeve surgery. At 17 kilos lighter (multiply by 2.2 for pounds), I am on the path I sought: the path of renewal, of re-affirmation, of re-defining, of re-organizing, of re-thinking. 

As heroic as it all sounds, it comes with re-prisals, re-grets, re-jection, re-tardation, and re-ally shitty moments.

• I am thinking of changing the format of this blog, but that comes with a sense of failure about the present format. Why do I have 18,670 views and only 11 followers?
  
• I am thinking about giving up my shop Carmel Gifts. Why do my competitors do so well with such ugly sites and spelling errors until kingdom come and I have only sporadic orders?
  
• Why doesn't anyone click through my links to Amazon so that I can earn a few extra pennies?
  
• Why don't any of the dating sites yield dates? We should rename them write-to-handsome-men-my-own-age-and-get-no-answer sites.
  

Take all the complaints and keep in mind that I only have 20% of a stomache. Comfort eating is no longer an option. (Read my last post...)

True, I'm already lookin' pretty hot, but damn I miss Ben and Jerry.

I now go to the gym and dare to choose a treadmill in front of the mirror. 

I now look good in jeans.

I now am DYING to run into an ex boyfriend.

I keep humming "...and Suzie wore here sweaters tight..." (Kudos to my kids who bought me tix to Elton John).

These 17 kilos in less than 3 months are only a fraction of the weight loss I can expect, only the start to actually enjoying life. 

So here we go, daring to do something different with the blog, and posting a picture of myself before and now.

And thanks for listening to me whine. I promise to be funnier in my next post.

Left, the day before surgery. Right, a week ago. Middle, somewhere in between.

A Large Salad Please

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Counting down to the 11th of November, the day I go under the knife, the most drastic exclamation that I have got to embrace eating to live instead of living to eat. 

I will look forward to my croutons on a salad instead of my ice cream in a ladle.

Gastric sleeve surgery will give me the kick start I am looking for to lose weight. 

I leave the quantifying of weight loss to the skinny people. I expect to shed at least the equivalent of a 4th grader in the first few months. 

This is how much weight I eventually want to lose:

1. I can cross my legs under a table.
2. I can throw on a pair of jeans.
3. I don't dread living rooms with deep cushiony sofas.
4. I hope to run into an ex boyfriend.
5. I can wear panty hose more than once.
6. I can wear horizontal stripes (!)
7. I don't break beach chairs.
8. I wear a belt as an accessory.
9. I wear clunky shoes and still look thin.
10. My butt crack does not contine up my back.

And so on and so forth. 

Hmmm. Flesh out (pun intended) the story behind each  of the above and I've got a damn good best seller on my hands....

For now, this is me not eating the brownies my daughter smelled up the kitchen with.

I'll let you know if they survive the night. 

"Houston, We Have a Problem" or Chapter 3 in my Journey to Lose Weight

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October 4th 2015, 12:49. 
Houston, come in. We have a problem.

111.10 kilos buck naked. Maximum payload exceded. Requesting go-ahead for emergency protocol.

*** Copy, Voyager. Commence emergency protocol***

Roger, Houston. Preparations commencing to shed excess. Commencing ice cream drain-off.

***Roger, Voyager. Rocky Road relocated to Milky Way. Continue. Over***

Copy. Commencing Carb ejection. 

***Copy, Voyager. Got that on radar. Re-directing carbs to training camps for safe use. Over.***

Roger, Houston. Emergency Protocol completed. Ice Cream and Carbs ejected. Taking over controls. Overriding auto-pilot. 

***Negative on that Voyager. ***

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Houston.Repeat. ice cream and carbs ejected, we can handle it from here. Relinquish controls. Over.

***Negative. Voyager. You can't handle shit. One minute without ice cream and carbs and you think you are safe. Confirm final weight and will consider relinquishing the vessel to your control. Over"

Shit, Houston. Over.

***Houston will continue monitoring your payload, Voyager. Over and Out."

Affirmative Houston. Thanks for watching my back. Over and Out.
-------------------------------------------

I wish I had a dozen thin tied men watching monitors 24/7, protecting me from myself.

For lack of that, I have a doctor who is about to cut away part of my stomach and a team of cheer leaders rooting for my victory over temptation. 

Maybe they will all be proud of me and eventually I will be proud of myself. 

"I Bought a Scale" - or Chapter 2 in My Journey to Lose Weight

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Swing band hour on the radio. Muted trumpets and a nice breeze  as evening turns to night. Imagine my surroundings in black and white, and it's almost enough to put me in a good mood, certainly a melancholy one (baby). Walk into a pleasant apartment after 12 hours at work and I almost wished I still smoked. I would open a bottle of wine but would have to throw it out before I had any one else to share it with. I briefly consider polishing off the bottle myself but know this atmosphere won't keep for too long

I'm getting hungry and I know there is a frozen pizza in the freezer. Shit. There goes the mood. 

In that flitting moment when I remember the pizza, my own personal Romantic Comedy morphs into a B Horror movie.  

In the former, I live in the upper east side and am bored, seeking a simpler life in Vermont. In the latter, I'm changing into a boll wevil frantically seeking a cotton plantation in the bronx.

Back to reality and I am congratulating myself for buying a scale.
When I take it out of the car kudos will really be in order.

I have to wean myself off sweets and carbonated beverages prior to my gastric sleeve surgery. 

I will. I always rise to the occasion, no matter how far down I start. 

Pretty soon my hugs will have to come from people instead of food.

But for now a pizza yearns for attention.

"Such a Pretty Face" or Chapter 1 in my Journey to Lose Weight

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Don't tell anyone, but I'm planning bariatric surgery. 

Don't bother:  "relating to or specializing in the treatment of obesity" The Merriam-Webster Dictionary 

Apparently, "needs to loose a little weight but doesn't she have a pretty face?" has given way to "oh look! she can't cross her legs but doesn't her hair look great?"

Well, I still think I'm pretty, even if the health system here labels me morbidly obese. 

Seriously? The cutoff seems quite arbitrary.  I don't care if my BMI has PMS, OCD and visits the DMV,  I may not be thin, but I am not on death's doorstep. 

Or maybe I'm not seeing myself as I should. I always considered myself an intelligent self-aware individual, but my confidence was shaken a few weeks ago when I discovered that I am no longer 5'4".

***** Cut to an image of my Great Aunt Anna -- all 4 feet of her - bustling around her Philly landmark restaurant, the Ambassador. "Mommy, why is she so short?" "Old people shrink, honey." 

So at 5'2" and ba-da-ba-bum pounds, I passed the requisite committees, medical tests and interviews which will entitle me to invite someone to cut away part of my stomach.

 But only after a diet meant to reduce the fat on my liver so that he can find it.

One of the specialists who has to agree to bariatric surgery in Israel is a psychiatrist. For better or worse, I have a psychiatrist who knows me for years. He is convinced that I am "fit to stand trial", that I understand the issues, that I have realistic expectations and that I will be so much happier in life if I can get back to the thin version of me.  


I really do believe that I have realistic expectations. With that established, I'm ready to go.

But first I have to  tell someone there is a conference room at work with chairs that have gotten narrower over the years. 

At Least I Never Changed My Status on Facebook

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I am so pissed at Hollywood. 

Apparently, a sad ex-lover never shows up at your door dissheveled and morose.
His friends don't call you to tell you he is a broken man.
And you don't get a do-over.  

After a reasonable amount of wallowing, I (YET AGAIN (wtf)) pulled myself up and brushed myself off. 

No world catastrophes when I took him off Speed Dial, although the weather did suddenly get super stormy.

Despite my last entry, I still hadn't added him to my emergency numbers. 
I must have sensed already that "Call in Case of Emergency" will be perpetually relegated to my children and first ex-husband. 

I suspect that somewhere deep inside, my equilibrium is set to status Single because I never changed my status on Facebook.

Imagine the quantum physics of a changed Facebook status back to single. 

• The tide might never ebb.
• The Salmon might stay downstream.
• Cumulonimbus clouds might never dissipate.
• Candian Geese might Winter in Buffalo.
• Vesuvius might bury Pompeii.

I am already responsibile for two wars in the Middle East which coincided with my divorces. I don't think I could handle any more responsibility.

So, for now, there you have it. This blog is not obsolete yet. 

He Always Has Ice Cream.

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Five months and I have upgraded him from "Favorites" to "Speed Dial". 
Next month I'll add him to my emergency numbers. 
After all, I'm trying to take things slowly....

Yet all of the signs are there:

I let him drive.
I make him soup.
I warm my feet on him and give him the good pillow.

He brings me mellons and car freshener.
He puts together my Ikea furniture.
He always has ice cream. 
He thinks I'm funny and is duly impressed that I can drive a stick. 

He is kind and considerate, intuitive and attentive, and he ALMOST always knows the right thing to say... 
(No, when I show you a picture of me with my 2 sisters and ask who is the prettiest, Deborah is NOT the right answer...)

He is my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night.

I am grateful every day that he is a part of my life.

Don't tell anyone because I don't want to jinx it, but I am really happy.

Yeah. 

"We've Got To Move this Refrigerator, We've Got to Move this Color TV"

__________________

I have done it again. Love evades me so I bought a flat screen TV. 

Last time I did it, it was instead of ice cream. This time the cache is full of the new summer flavors. 

As if it weren't enough that I feel heartbroken, I hate myself for my obvious and trite methods of consoling myself. Ice cream (obvious), shopping spree (trite).

I do however stand out from the lonely hearts crowd by going big when I need comfort. I buy major appliances. 

• The one that got away warranted a garbage disposal.
• The one that stood me up won me a small flat screen TV.
• The date from purgatory replaced my dryer.
• And now the misbegotten affection has hit the jackpot with the large flat screen TV, in front of which I will deplete the above mentioned cache while watching all seasons of Project Runway and imagine that it is I who gets Tim's hug of doom before being sent to clean up my space.

Suddenly the expression "Go big or go home" seems ironic. I have found the way to go big AND go home. 

Maybe I'm not that trite after all. 

A Rose By Any Other Name

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I changed my name. 

As of February 2nd I am no longer Rosa Ziv, I am Rachel Rose Shalev. 

Carrying around my ex-husband's last name has been weighing on me for years. 12 years divorced, and the last 10 of them deciding on a new name while picking up the pieces of my life.

For years I had the last name Sarid in mind. It means survivor, or remnant, in Hebrew. I thought it was a very Zionistic name, and descriptive of my life. 

I mentioned the name to a woman I consult with on life's more ethereal issues. She replied, "Why do you want to just survive?" 

So years passed without an alternative - I must have been in survival mode longer than I thought. But in the last few months I decided on Shalev. Let's just say the name has some roots for me in Israel. But mostly it means Tranquil. 

Last name chosen, why not change the first name that seemed to be bothering the shit out of me recently. 

The name Rosa loses all its poetry in Israel. Not only is it reminiscent of a Moroccan grandmother (no offense to the wonderful Moroccan grandmothers, but I'm not one) it is the subject of a Yehoram Gaon song which everyone who meets me feels the need to sing, and then ask me during my last 29 years in Israel if I've heard it... The chorus starts "Ach, ach, ach, Rosa, Rosa, Rosa..." Somehow, it just doesn't make it to the list of names you love from songs. 

Determined to feel better about my name, I kept the name Rose, the grandmother for whom I was named, and armed with the Hebrew name Rachel from my youth, I changed my first name, too, to Rachel Rose.

I'll do something I never did in this blog and use the Hebrew, but I just have to show you why I chose Rachel, רייצ'ל over רחל. The Israelis among you will understand. 

Explanation out of the way, how does it make me feel? I walked out of the Ministry of Interior with my new name, smiling.  

I'm still getting used to it, as are others. Most people at work called me Rose anyway, but now they are having fun calling me Rach. I like it. 

I think that until I change my name in the bank, on my US passport and on Google, the transformation won't be total. 

• Has it changed my life? Not in the last 3 weeks, but I certainly feel like I'm facing forward instead of carrying the burdens of the past. 
• Do I still get lonely? Hell yes. 
• Do I let it get me down? Once a week. 
• Do I feel optimistic? I feel I am capable of change. 

Last year this time I pierced an extra hole in each ear because I needed a change and didn't have the money to move house. This year I shed some baggage. 

I believe that  2014 is my year. The year that great things will happen. 

• The year that when I get dressed, I will have someplace to go. 
• The year that when I need a hug, it will come from someone other than my kids.
• The year that my mantras will manifest in reality.
• The year that the universe will smile on me.

Wish me luck. 

Signed, 
Rachel Rose Shalev. 

The Pursuit of Butterflies

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I've decided to donate my brain to psychiatry.
I would donate my hormones, id and libido but no one wants them.


Upon examination of my brain, someone very clever might finally understand what drives me to idiocy and self deprecation in my incessant pursuit of the wrong man. 

I hear that there are more women like me and that the literature on the subject is abundant, but I haven't read any of it because I would be forced to recognize myself and stop it. 

My attraction to the unattainable is teetering between the ridiculous and the absurd.

I've been told that even available - emotionally or otherwise - guys can be exciting, could keep my attention and would make the butterflies flutter. They did decades ago, but we were all available then. We married them, divorced them and the rest is history. 

There should be a speed dating event for us good ones -  women and men alike - those of us who like the bad boys and the bitches, respectively. We would speed interact with each other with kindness and attention and bore each other to death. When they finally scrape our corpses off the floor and donate our brains to psychiatry they will discover that we are basically fine human beings with a few scratches here and there, and a few wounds that never healed. 

At the very least, they will discover that we tried as hard as we could to do the ineffable right thing. Most of the time we managed. 

But once in a while we really missed those beautiful butterflies.

The Doctor Will See You Now

I wonder if I had been a Doctor if I would still be so intent on finding one. 

It's not my fault that the mystique surrounding Doctors lingers this many years and laughs in the face of every ounce of wisdom I have accumulated. Readers of my generation don't require any explanations or apologies. Certainly not the Jewish ones. And no, PhDs don't count. 

But I am not a doctor (I'll stop capitalizing the word now) and the mystique has led me off the path of common sense and verging on hussiness. 

A couple of years ago I came across a doctor on a dating site. He had the good sense to post a photo of himself in a white coat and a stethescope because he didn't have much else going for him personality wise. When he called me, I was smitten, and I stayed a smitten kitten much longer than he deserved. A Pediatrician in a major Pediatric hospital has a cache about it that other professions don't. 

So shoot me. 

Last year, I found myself in any number of outpatient procedures which required the whole shabang of ass flattering hospital gowns and recovery rooms. I shamelessly flirted with the Anasthesiologists who promptly rendered me unconscious. 

While I totally got off on the absolute black out and have found no other way to replicate it without the use of illicit drugs, I have to say to myself, "Good grief." Anasthesiologists knock their patients out. It hardly exudes doctors-without-borders emotion. It reminds me of an Inheritance Lawyer I dated who said he chose the specialty so that his clients wouldn't call him.

One month ago I had surgery. None of this child's play go home in a few hours "procedures." The hard-core stuff. 

A month of multiple hospital stays prior to surgery would have been a haven for me in my search, had I not been deathly ill and looking like crap. But leave it to my mom to ask what I was wearing and if I at least put on some makeup... 

I mercilessly berated her for her gross insensitivity to my condition, and assured her that a catheter and a bag of urine hanging over my  bed would not bring me dates even WITH mascara. 

Don't tell her, but I did purchase expensive pyjamas prior to my surgery a month later. 

Ah yes. Surgery. Surgeons. The cream of the crop. 

They meet you in their clinics in their fine clothes and leather chair and with a heart melting smile reassure you that everything will be fine.  

And when they meet you in their crocs and scrubs at 7am on the appointed day and again reassure you that everything will be fine, your naked vulnerability never crosses your mind because they are holding your hand as you count backward from 10.

At your groggiest you are vaguely aware that they are graciously instructing the recovery room staff to give you more morphine. Later in your room,  you can't wait for tomorrow when you might have enough strength to change into your new pyjamas before your Surgeon makes his rounds.

And for days and weeks thereafter, you rise above your condition and try to look your best. 

But all the Doctors were taken a long time ago. Probably by nurses with pony tails and perky boobs. Yet you tell yourself that this plethora of Doctors are stuck in marriages with bitchy fellow doctors and they just don't have the strength to do anything about it. 

The Surgeon has set the bar very high. I don't know how I will recover from this last incident of knowing that nothing less will do.

Then I recall that a comedy writer was as good as it could get, followed by an artist, and yes, even a Doctor here and there crossed my path. 

They were all as good as it gets. 

For now I want a Doctor. 
Or do I just want someone to take care of me?

You do the math.

I Have a Dream

.......................................
I have a dream that I will make enough money one day to pay off my mortgage. 
I have a dream that one day my errant soulmate will find me.

Now, here are my real dreams:
I dreamt that my entire house was filled with laundry that needed folding.
I dreamt that my house was surrounded by masked bandits.
I dreamt that all the good toilet stalls were taken and I had to pee in public. 

I recently went on a singles weekend to Eilat and was so disenchanted that I didn't care that I was seen in a bathing suit. Of course there were about 4 men to 50 women. 

Of the 4 about 2 were semi normal and he got my phone number... He even called me. 

We had a nice date. Really. We went out again. 

At some point I couldn't hold it back anymore and I started correcting his grammar.  

I think he barely noticed because he had stopped listening somewhere around appetizers on the second date. One of those people that call you and start right in talking from the middle of the conversation, as if you have been privy to their thoughts for the last hour. 

I still get dressed to run errands lest I meet someone. And of course that can't happen if I am wearing sneakers and no makeup. 

I hold the gaze of someone who I think is cute and bat my ever thinning eyelashes. 

I haven't given up. Keep rooting for me.

Soul Music

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I got a "new" car 6 months ago. I still haven't moved any CDs from the house to the car so I have been at the mercy of the radio; but I did finally give in and add music to my smart phone, once I learned that I can attach a cable to the car radio and listen. It only took me another two months to find the cable at a normal price. And voila. As of today, I have the perfect music in my car, and no warped CDs. 

I realized this morning on my way to work, how qualitatively different it is to listen to music in the morning than to listen to the news. 

I've mentioned here before that music has a way of setting me off into deep sadness. However, today it was different. The resulting melancholy blues notwithstanding, I realized how much closer I have become to defining myself without defining me in relationship to others. I was able to listen to music without remembering who I was with the last time I heard that song, or worse yet, who I wish I could be with while listening the song right now. 

OK. So I did sneak in a who-I-wish-I-could-be-with or two, and he knows who he is, but it didn't put me over the edge. 

Listening to the music I love, and not wallowing in self-pity, was a big step for me this morning. 

Listening to the music I love brought me back to this blog, with the understanding that it didn't just have to be about my search for a man anymore. 

This blog could now be just about being. 

I have decided that 2013 is my year.

Wish me luck.  

May I See Your Portfolio?

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I wish I could say I haven't written since August because I found someone. But I can't and I haven't. 

I wish I could say that it was only because my online shop, Carmel Gifts,  keeps me busy 24/7 but I can't and it doesn't. 

I have been busy with health issues with one of my children, unfortunately, but this will pass too, and it will no longer be an excuse as to why I haven't written for months on end. 

The real reason I haven't written is because I am sparing my loyal readers the humorless diatribes about how truly hard it is to find someone suitable after age 50. 

I was recently introduced to someone who was head over heels crazy about me, offering the whole relationship package, who even lives on my favorite street in Haifa. He immediately started inviting me to do relationship-y things before we had built up to that. (No, I don't want to come over for a bowl of soup. Take me out to a nice restaurant you idiot).  Lo and behold, I realized what it was like to date a woman who wants a relationship. Pretty scary stuff. 

I know that if I had felt that whole love at first sight magic (crap?) I would have gone with the flow. But I didn't and I didn't. 

For ages, I never bothered to answer mail on sites from men that were just inappropriate from the get go. Now I do, because I am tired of being nice. I just answer them why they think I would interested in someone separated (yeah, right) with no picture who can only describe himself as "live and let live". Uh huh. I see real potential there. 

I answer the 30 year old who asks if I've ever been with someone aged 30, with a yes, when I was 30. 

I answer the 65 year old that I am not interested in being anyone's younger woman, but if he were 85 and sitting on a great portfolio, we'd have something to talk about. 

I answer the 40 year old single man who wants a family, that I am not interested in waiting until he meets a 35 year old woman with a ticking uterus. 

I am still formulating an answer for the woman who tells me that I am a closet lesbian and that if I would just meet her I could discover my inner truth. 

I am teetering on the brink of not caring if I meet anyone or not.  But who knows? Maybe someone will show up in time to pull me back from the edge. 

Smile Smile Smile.

......................

I should never be left alone with a computer when I'm feeling lonely. I will join another dating site.

I am always sure that this new site will be my saving grace. That among the tree-hugging masseurs, middle aged cradle robbers and 30 year olds that think they can teach me something, I may find myself starring in a Romantic Comedy. I will find the one who will have made it worth the wait. 

As time goes by, I realize that chances are I won't find him on this new site or any other. Chances are I may never find him. Chances are I may kiss a lot of frogs and none of them will turn into princes. 

I've been told that if I smile a lot the universe will smile on me. Maybe it will, maybe it won't. But for goodness sake. Sometimes I just don't have a smile in me. 

Can't the universe start the smiling? I promise to smile back under the right circumstances. 

...................................

Count Backward from Ten

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I'm back. I wasn't really gone. Just totally distracted with a zillion thought bytes as well as undergoing minor surgery AND not being able to drive for two months.

PLEASE do not ask me to give details about my life without driving. I am doing a fair job of not pulling my hair out by the roots, not pummeling civil servants about the head and chest, and not engaging in scathing diatribes against the passengers on public transportation for their intrusion on my personal space.

After all, public transportation is the reason that personal space was invented.  

The minor surgery went well. I am desperately trying to relive that experience when, within the course of a split second I am looking around the O.R. and then "poof", I am waking up in recovery. 

I would like to believe that my shameless flirting with the anasthesiologist was not the reason they blacked me out. Regardless, I would love to attach myself to an I.V. drip with that stuff during my next bad date.  

It's just as well they blacked me out. Gynecological surgery is never an event that makes a gal feel pretty. 

Speaking of pretty, I got my hair done, had other hair removed, and generally, have been all dressed up with no place to go. 

I am distracted from this sad state of my love life by my pet projects, this blog being one of them. However, the wheels are churning much too fast in this little head of mine, and more often than not, I get nothing done rather than a lot done. I managed to slow down the thoughts and sift through them one by one. 

Here are some of my conclusions:

• I will not feel bad that I don't write in my blog as often as I used to. Twice a month will be fine. And anyway, you wouldn't want me un-inspired, would you?
• I don't expect to have a date every week. I will, instead, be grateful if a week goes by and I am not called an uppity, ugly bitch just because I didn't want to go out with someone. 
•  I have decided that it is NOT OK if my online shop stays in the hobby realm. I need it to move into the earning realm. 

Most importantly, sometimes I find the wherewithal to remember that even if I never find my partner for life, I have 3 children who, while not calling as often as they should while I sit in the dark, are still pretty wonderful. And for that I am blessed. 

Just a Silly Love Song

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Just when I thought I had until February 14th to avoid holidays meant for lovers, they hit me with the Israeli response to cherubs shooting arrows,  Tu B'Av, the 15th of the Hebrew month of Av. 


Apparently,  in post-Biblical times, this particular full moon heralded  the occasion for women to dress in white and prance in vineyards, so they could be chosen as wives. 


The radio has been playing love songs all day. 


I was OK as they played a sexy Samba. 


I was even OK when they played The Girl rom Ipanema. The muse of that song is 67 year old now. 


Oh, but then they played It's Too Good to be True and I turned off the radio. 


Most of the time I don't think too much about it. I sleep sprawled on the bed and I get to hold the remote. 


The rest of the time, I'd give up all the advantages of being alone in a heartbeat, just to have someone who will make my heart skip a beat. 


Who knows. Maybe by February 14th the cherubs will find their way to Haifa and I'll have plans for dinner and the Samba. 


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