Today I was going to write about how things, places, and people go on without us, and how dangerous it is to expose your actual present, which consists of evolved memories, to the metamorphosed present of your past. Confused? Don’t worry – I abandoned that idea as soon as I read the NYTimes review of Baby Mama http://movies.nytimes.com/2008/04/25/movies/25baby.html (which I have full intentions of seeing, with or without you, FanofPolinaland!).
I haven’t seen the actual movie yet, so I cannot comment on its merits as a comedy. What I can comment on is the Times review by one Manohla Dargis. Of Amy Poehler, who is a gifted comedienne, Ms. Dargis says: “At 36 Ms. Poehler is at least 10 years too old for the role, as the softly focused close-ups suggest, but she’s a pip.” Though very critical of the movie, Dargis seems fond of Poehler’s performance. That, however, doesn’t excuse her ridiculous comments.
Those who know me will agree that I am by far not a feminist, but I find Dargis’s statement bitter and stupid. Although she is a professional film critic, she apparently finds it impossible to look past whatever those “close-ups suggest.” By the way, Amy Poehler looks great – certainly great enough to play a young white trash surrogate mother.
There is enormous pressure on women to look 25 whether they are 15, 35, or 45. And while I would be delighted to stop the aging process, I would hope to have something other than a few wrinkles to be criticized about when I am no longer in my prime. It is very disappointing to read a pseudo-intelligent woman voice such a dim comment, in New York Times no less.
I’d like to remind Manohla that Baby Mama is a comedy, and Amy Poehler is a character actress, not a Playboy bunny. I would also suggest Ms. Dargis look in the mirror prior to writing film reviews, to be humbled, if anything.
P.S. Naturally, I googled the hell out of Manohla Dargis – check this out if you’re interested: http://gawker.com/news/manohla-dargis/
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Pass Over Me
Passover at my parents’ household is really special… It is almost as important as the celebration of Rosh Hashanah, almost as important as the feast after Yom Kippur, and of course, much more significant than Chanukah (or any other minor holiday my people emphasize to measure up to our Christian brothers’ festivities). Crammed into my parents’ Brooklyn apartment are the immediate family members on my mother’s side, headed by my grandmother – the matriarch. Today, we will make our annual attempt to have a Seder.
Armed with a Russian-language instruction manual for a Seder, my grandmother tries to initiate the ceremony. Chicken soup is clearly not in any Haggadah (the instruction manual), but that will be our first course nonetheless. “It’s from a kosher chicken!” my mom notes proudly for the umpteenth time. “We’ve heard about the magic kosher chicken a million times already!” I say and immediately regret having said it. Did you know that the bullion from a kosher chicken comes out completely clear and tastes so much better? Now you do! “Nothing’s going to happen to you if you hear about it one more time.” she responds. Aaaah, finally, the Seder has begun.
I am famished and make sure that everyone I come in contact with knows just how hungry I am. My gentile husband inquires if “it’s one of those holidays you have to fast.” For someone who looks so good in a yarmulke, he should really know his holidays. Plus, let’s not forget that Passover was his Lord’s Last Supper.
Passover food is pretty awful. The women in my family really try, but there is just not much you can do. And the sight of gefilte fish alone makes my belly sink in disappointment. “Now we dip the parsley in the salt water to remember how we were slaves in Egypt and…” says my grandmother meaningfully and with feeling. “Yes, let’s do that…’cause we definitely don’t have any more recent sad events to recollect about,” I note. “You say that every year,” responds my mother, visibly annoyed. She is right, I do say it every year. Though to my defense, I say it only once a year, and I am on a roll today – I am acting out like a hormonal teenager and I cannot be stopped.
“Then we take a sip of the wine…” my grandma continues. “Is that the blood of Christian babies?” I ask my cousin. “No, we use the blood of Christian babies in the matzah mix,” he clarifies. “Now we break the middle matzah in half...” she tries to keep us on track before she is interrupted by my mother, who says that we’ve had enough and should just proceed with eating.
“Next year in Jerusalem!” exclaims my mother. “No, stupid, we don’t say that for Passover, that’s for Rosh Hashanah,” my aunt corrects her gently – my aunt is wrong, but it’s the confidence that you have in your voice that really counts. “Na zdorov’ye!” says my husband (he heard it from the movies, and although he knows it’s not correct, finds it amusing nonetheless). “Poyehali!” responds my dad enthusiastically. They’ll have to make do with polish potato vodka today, and if anyone is really watching upstairs, he’ll have to make do with our Seder.
Armed with a Russian-language instruction manual for a Seder, my grandmother tries to initiate the ceremony. Chicken soup is clearly not in any Haggadah (the instruction manual), but that will be our first course nonetheless. “It’s from a kosher chicken!” my mom notes proudly for the umpteenth time. “We’ve heard about the magic kosher chicken a million times already!” I say and immediately regret having said it. Did you know that the bullion from a kosher chicken comes out completely clear and tastes so much better? Now you do! “Nothing’s going to happen to you if you hear about it one more time.” she responds. Aaaah, finally, the Seder has begun.
I am famished and make sure that everyone I come in contact with knows just how hungry I am. My gentile husband inquires if “it’s one of those holidays you have to fast.” For someone who looks so good in a yarmulke, he should really know his holidays. Plus, let’s not forget that Passover was his Lord’s Last Supper.
Passover food is pretty awful. The women in my family really try, but there is just not much you can do. And the sight of gefilte fish alone makes my belly sink in disappointment. “Now we dip the parsley in the salt water to remember how we were slaves in Egypt and…” says my grandmother meaningfully and with feeling. “Yes, let’s do that…’cause we definitely don’t have any more recent sad events to recollect about,” I note. “You say that every year,” responds my mother, visibly annoyed. She is right, I do say it every year. Though to my defense, I say it only once a year, and I am on a roll today – I am acting out like a hormonal teenager and I cannot be stopped.
“Then we take a sip of the wine…” my grandma continues. “Is that the blood of Christian babies?” I ask my cousin. “No, we use the blood of Christian babies in the matzah mix,” he clarifies. “Now we break the middle matzah in half...” she tries to keep us on track before she is interrupted by my mother, who says that we’ve had enough and should just proceed with eating.
“Next year in Jerusalem!” exclaims my mother. “No, stupid, we don’t say that for Passover, that’s for Rosh Hashanah,” my aunt corrects her gently – my aunt is wrong, but it’s the confidence that you have in your voice that really counts. “Na zdorov’ye!” says my husband (he heard it from the movies, and although he knows it’s not correct, finds it amusing nonetheless). “Poyehali!” responds my dad enthusiastically. They’ll have to make do with polish potato vodka today, and if anyone is really watching upstairs, he’ll have to make do with our Seder.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Age of Innocence
And, I am back… I am finally getting over my strep throat, which I suffered through like a baby. A good blogger would have used this unexpected time off work to work on an entry, but all I could think of is what would I be willing to sacrifice to make this awful ear ache go away. The questions begin with the usual : “Would you be willing to lose half of your pinky toe?” The answer, so far, is “No!” “Would you be willing to live ten minutes further away from the city than you do now?” “No way!” (Note, this answer has been constant regardless of my distance from the city at the time) I get bored with the questions after about three or four, as clearly, I am not ready to give up much. More importantly, no one is offering me any deals, and I should probably check my temperature and get on with feeling sorry for myself.
My amazing parents rushed from Brooklyn to Westchester to make me some magical chicken soup my mother refers to as “Jewish penicillin.” I felt lucky, loved, and about fifteen. Then I remembered that I am not fifteen, but still felt lucky and loved. Then I felt not fifteen at all, not even nineteen… I mostly felt NOT. It dawned on me that now is my real age of innocence. The years traditionally referred to as the age of innocence seem more like a time of ignorance and delusions. The real search begins once you’ve been deconstructed, classified and filed by time and events and not just by the little crazies (that’s a real scientific term for you) in your head.
Recently, someone accomplished and successful gave me feedback on my writing. “How old are you?” she asked. “Twenty-six,” I answered. Pause. “So…not so young,” I added reluctantly. Pause. “Not so old either,” she added, also reluctantly. We both were thinking: “You really should have your shit together by now.”
The last few years have drafted an extensive list of things I am not and things I will not be. Disappointing? Today, it is almost liberating.
I have learned to accept that I will always have insecurities. This is very different from embracing your insecurities or accepting your shortcomings. I, on the contrary, have made peace with the fact that I will always be unsatisfied with certain aspects of self. It’s kind of like accepting that you are neurotic… which you shouldn’t – there are many treatment options.
P.S. Being fifteen sucks, of course. And I do have the most important part figured out, fanofpolinaland.
My amazing parents rushed from Brooklyn to Westchester to make me some magical chicken soup my mother refers to as “Jewish penicillin.” I felt lucky, loved, and about fifteen. Then I remembered that I am not fifteen, but still felt lucky and loved. Then I felt not fifteen at all, not even nineteen… I mostly felt NOT. It dawned on me that now is my real age of innocence. The years traditionally referred to as the age of innocence seem more like a time of ignorance and delusions. The real search begins once you’ve been deconstructed, classified and filed by time and events and not just by the little crazies (that’s a real scientific term for you) in your head.
Recently, someone accomplished and successful gave me feedback on my writing. “How old are you?” she asked. “Twenty-six,” I answered. Pause. “So…not so young,” I added reluctantly. Pause. “Not so old either,” she added, also reluctantly. We both were thinking: “You really should have your shit together by now.”
The last few years have drafted an extensive list of things I am not and things I will not be. Disappointing? Today, it is almost liberating.
I have learned to accept that I will always have insecurities. This is very different from embracing your insecurities or accepting your shortcomings. I, on the contrary, have made peace with the fact that I will always be unsatisfied with certain aspects of self. It’s kind of like accepting that you are neurotic… which you shouldn’t – there are many treatment options.
P.S. Being fifteen sucks, of course. And I do have the most important part figured out, fanofpolinaland.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Saving Book
I wasn’t going to write anything until next week or so, but I just couldn't contain myself after reading this article: Bible is America 's favorite book: poll (http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20080408/lf_nm_life/reading_survey_dc)
First, the clever Yahoo! marketers (or “marketeers” – the term my pseudo-professor used in a grad school course, which was part of the reason I quit) caught my wandering eye with the promising tag-line, which read something like “Guess which book is America ’s favorite…” Now, it doesn’t take a genius to guess; so I guessed right: The Bible.
I wonder what people giving this answer think they are conveying about themselves? That they are good god-fearing Americans? Do they think this answer fools anyone into thinking they actually read? I’d go so far as to guess that the very same people who give this answer would not buy it from anyone else. And how many of them actually read the bible? I bet few, if any; not even the Cliffsnotes (like Valerie’s pal from the previous post). I admit to reading the children’s version at the tender age of 11 and thinking that Abraham was a real prick. Joseph, on the other hand, was a real mensch, standing by his lady in her predicament. Who is your favorite character, dear reader?
But wait, this gets better: ”Men chose J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings" and women selected Margaret Mitchell's "Gone With the Wind" as their second-favorite book, according to the online poll.” The article doesn’t specify if the poll participants were given set options or if they could enter anything they wanted, but in either case – these are real gems (nothing personal against either selection). And note how diverse and open-minded we are as readers...
Back to the Holy Book. I grew up in a very Jewish neighborhood of Brooklyn , surrounded by Soviet and middle-eastern Jews. Syrian Jews live primarily in large, multi-level houses spilling over the modest but priceless plots of land. Much wealthier than their Eastern European counterparts, members of the Sephardic community proudly display their achievements in business by driving luxury German cars and having big, clean, and unobstructed windows. A glimpse into one of those windows, however, offers nothing of interest to a nosy onlooker like me. Aside from rows of religious tomes, I never spotted a single book. Walking by one evening with my father I asked him if he thought they have books at home. “Yes,” he said, “they have saving books.”
*For non-Russian speakers, please note that the term “saving book” refers to a document you receive when you open a savings account (in Russia ).
First, the clever Yahoo! marketers (or “marketeers” – the term my pseudo-professor used in a grad school course, which was part of the reason I quit) caught my wandering eye with the promising tag-line, which read something like “Guess which book is America ’s favorite…” Now, it doesn’t take a genius to guess; so I guessed right: The Bible.
I wonder what people giving this answer think they are conveying about themselves? That they are good god-fearing Americans? Do they think this answer fools anyone into thinking they actually read? I’d go so far as to guess that the very same people who give this answer would not buy it from anyone else. And how many of them actually read the bible? I bet few, if any; not even the Cliffsnotes (like Valerie’s pal from the previous post). I admit to reading the children’s version at the tender age of 11 and thinking that Abraham was a real prick. Joseph, on the other hand, was a real mensch, standing by his lady in her predicament. Who is your favorite character, dear reader?
But wait, this gets better: ”Men chose J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings" and women selected Margaret Mitchell's "Gone With the Wind" as their second-favorite book, according to the online poll.” The article doesn’t specify if the poll participants were given set options or if they could enter anything they wanted, but in either case – these are real gems (nothing personal against either selection). And note how diverse and open-minded we are as readers...
Back to the Holy Book. I grew up in a very Jewish neighborhood of Brooklyn , surrounded by Soviet and middle-eastern Jews. Syrian Jews live primarily in large, multi-level houses spilling over the modest but priceless plots of land. Much wealthier than their Eastern European counterparts, members of the Sephardic community proudly display their achievements in business by driving luxury German cars and having big, clean, and unobstructed windows. A glimpse into one of those windows, however, offers nothing of interest to a nosy onlooker like me. Aside from rows of religious tomes, I never spotted a single book. Walking by one evening with my father I asked him if he thought they have books at home. “Yes,” he said, “they have saving books.”
*For non-Russian speakers, please note that the term “saving book” refers to a document you receive when you open a savings account (in Russia ).
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Sheep in the box
Welcome to PolinaLand… Before you make fun of the name of my blog, I’d like to mention that simply “Polina” was taken, as was “popopolina,” “popopopolina,” and many other exciting options. At least PolinaLand kind of rolls off the tongue, right? RIGHT?
Due to my ADD and general inability to focus on any single subject for fear of discovering, yet again, that I am just not good enough, I will introduce completely random topics each week.
I was initially going to write about the many embarrassing aspects of growing up in an immigrant family and circulate it with the five other immigrants I know, so we could collectively make fun of ourselves and our families. Then, two things happened. First, I came to my senses and realized it would hurt my family’s feelings… and that is the last thing I want to do. Second, my Indian friend sent me a link to stuffindianslike.com, and I quickly concluded that my take on the issue would never measure up in wit or in volume!
So instead, I want to share my thoughts on an essay by Rachel Donadio, published in New York Times on March 30, 2008. You can find It’s Not You, It’s Your Books online at http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/30/books/review/Donadio-t.html?em&ex=1207800000&en=5dc64df025008fd9&ei=5087%0A
I am by far not as well read as I would like to be. However, it certainly never prevented me from judging others on their literary choices. Hypocritical? Definitely! But, at least I am honest. When I was younger, the books someone read (or didn’t read) served as a simple, if not always accurate, indicator of intelligence. (I know intelligence is really not the right word, but bear with me) I no longer use this criterion extensively for a few reasons: A) I don’t make many new friends B) I had a chance to grow up just a little.
I don’t have “top 5” must read books; though major literary gaps can be alarming. Still, there are many books that will put the reader in my “please don’t talk to me” category. When my high school Russian for Russian-speakers teacher drew a parallel between Pushkin and Danielle Steele (after all, love is such a universal subject…), the world became a little sadder. I looked around the class for other grieving faces to see if I could make friends.
I am not sure how I feel about the idea of book clubs. Discussing books on a schedule is definitely practical and harmless, but something just doesn’t seem quite right about it. If anyone has thoughts on/experience in book clubs, please share.
But I digress… So, how many points do you think my husband earned when he gave me the first edition of The Little Prince as his first gift? A million! It seems that he would find most of the books I read boring or at best, depressing. Yet, he doesn’t reach for a Stephen King novel and instead opts for some essays on math or physics, which don’t interest me in the least. But not only can he see the elephant in the boa, he knows that the sheep is in the box! And that matters…
Due to my ADD and general inability to focus on any single subject for fear of discovering, yet again, that I am just not good enough, I will introduce completely random topics each week.
I was initially going to write about the many embarrassing aspects of growing up in an immigrant family and circulate it with the five other immigrants I know, so we could collectively make fun of ourselves and our families. Then, two things happened. First, I came to my senses and realized it would hurt my family’s feelings… and that is the last thing I want to do. Second, my Indian friend sent me a link to stuffindianslike.com, and I quickly concluded that my take on the issue would never measure up in wit or in volume!
So instead, I want to share my thoughts on an essay by Rachel Donadio, published in New York Times on March 30, 2008. You can find It’s Not You, It’s Your Books online at http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/30/books/review/Donadio-t.html?em&ex=1207800000&en=5dc64df025008fd9&ei=5087%0A
I am by far not as well read as I would like to be. However, it certainly never prevented me from judging others on their literary choices. Hypocritical? Definitely! But, at least I am honest. When I was younger, the books someone read (or didn’t read) served as a simple, if not always accurate, indicator of intelligence. (I know intelligence is really not the right word, but bear with me) I no longer use this criterion extensively for a few reasons: A) I don’t make many new friends B) I had a chance to grow up just a little.
I don’t have “top 5” must read books; though major literary gaps can be alarming. Still, there are many books that will put the reader in my “please don’t talk to me” category. When my high school Russian for Russian-speakers teacher drew a parallel between Pushkin and Danielle Steele (after all, love is such a universal subject…), the world became a little sadder. I looked around the class for other grieving faces to see if I could make friends.
I am not sure how I feel about the idea of book clubs. Discussing books on a schedule is definitely practical and harmless, but something just doesn’t seem quite right about it. If anyone has thoughts on/experience in book clubs, please share.
But I digress… So, how many points do you think my husband earned when he gave me the first edition of The Little Prince as his first gift? A million! It seems that he would find most of the books I read boring or at best, depressing. Yet, he doesn’t reach for a Stephen King novel and instead opts for some essays on math or physics, which don’t interest me in the least. But not only can he see the elephant in the boa, he knows that the sheep is in the box! And that matters…
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