the pieces of my life

Belts and Feet

April 25th, 2013 § 1 comment § permalink

Do people consciously put on their belts in the same direction? When I put on my jeans, I can never remember which direction my belt should go and then half the time when I go to the bathroom, I get confused and want to buckle the belt in the other direction. Unfortunately, I don’t take the belt out when I take my jeans off, so when I put the jeans on the next day, the belt is still backward. No, I don’t fix it. That would require more work.

The buckle has been bothering me more than usual, as I’ve lightened up so much on the running, because of the self-diagnosed plantar fasciitis. Not running makes me bitchy. Seriously bitchy. And belt buckles annoy me. But that’s what happens when you have plantar fasciitis.

Remember when I used Dr. Internet and her assistant Nurse Duchess and decided I had plantar fasciitis? I followed everything Dr. Internet told me about plantar fasciitis, and I rested my foot, rolled it on a ball, iced, etc.

Yesterday I caved. I went to an orthopedist. And I got my official verdict. I have a “textbook case” of… plantar fasciitis. (You weren’t expecting that, were you?) But the good news? I can still run. Dr. With a Medical Degree told me, “The plantar fasciitis will hurt you, but you can’t hurt the plantar fasciitis.” While Dr. Internet was correct on the diagnosis, he was off on the cure; there is no cure. I will be in pain for about six months to a year. But you know what? As long as I can run, I don’t mind hobbling a bit.

But I still won’t fix the belt buckle.

Home Sweet Home

April 16th, 2013 § Comments Off on Home Sweet Home § permalink

We had this amazing day yesterday. As the day was happening, I was planning this pleasantly snarky post with tons of the photos I took about trouble on the Green (the whole family woke at 4:15 a.m. to go see the re-enactment of the Battle on the Green at 5:30 a.m.), and about how the kids stood almost patiently in 33 degree weather, toes freezing, to see the Shot Heard ‘Round the World. About how Adam went to work so the three of us went home and actually played a game together in which no one got upset (unbelievable, I know!). About how we went to Town Hall to see Paul Revere and William Dawes come to warn us the Regulars were coming, and how we knew when they were arriving because we tracked them on Twitter, and that they signed autographs to boot! (Well, they did if you were a pair of adorable seven year olds). About how we went to a playground, and Doodles, Pie, Jasmine, and her older sister all played beautifully together, even though it was nippy out and our family, at least, was oh-so sleepy.

But while we were sitting at the playground, Adam called. “Did you hear?” he asked. “There was an explosion at the marathon.”

And my perfect day fizzled away like last week’s soda pop.

We’re lucky. Adam’s longtime friend had finished the marathon 20 minutes before the bombs went off. Doodles’s third grade teacher had running problems and bailed on the run midway through. We had decided the weather simply wasn’t good enough to go watch.

Not everyone was so lucky.

I rag on Boston. I mean all the time. I complain it’s not a real city, that the football team is overrated (Pie and I agreed: When the Patriots are against the Redcoats, we root for the Patriots. In all other circumstances, we root for the Dolphins), and I just don’t get the baseball worship. Dunkin Donuts leaves me cold. I cringe every time my girl says, “Mirra,” when she means, “Mirror,” and I’m not shy about correcting her… or her friends.

But you know what? Boston is my town. It’s where not only my husband, but both my kids, were born (all three in the same Boston hospital). It’s where I’ve made the kind of friends you only get to make once in a lifetime (friends like Beetle and Keaton and Scooby and the Duchess and so many more who are important who don’t have blog names, but should). It’s where I built my home, my marriage, my family. I’ve lived in Boston for more consecutive years than any other city in my life. I’ve lived in this house for longer than any other home in my life.

Yeah, Boston sucks. The roads make no sense. The drivers suck. The sports are crazy. The coffee is bad. The accent is fierce. The colleges are snooty. But if you dare trash this place, you’re going to answer to me.

Because Boston is my home. As much as a home as I’ve ever had.

And no one should f*ck with it.

It was a tough day. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in the eleven years I’ve been here, Bostonians are bad ass. We’ll recover. We’ll be here next year to celebrate another Patriots Day. It’ll just be a bittersweet one.

April 13, 1775

April 14th, 2013 § Comments Off on April 13, 1775 § permalink

Keaton and I are both nursing injuries so instead of our Saturday morning run, we decided we’d take a civilized walk in Lexington. We were going at a brisk pace, taking in the chilly, but pleasant spring morning. Other locals were walking as well.

Yet we were fairly we were startled by a lone Redcoat.

He took a look at my iPhone, shot me an evil eye, and said, “Witchcraft!”

Moving along, we noticed that the British seemed to be setting up camp.

And they were well armed.

We were only somewhat reassured to see the Minutemen were gearing up, though they look to be a ragtag bunch.

Yet, as we were headed back to our cars, we were forced off our path by these soliders, and we were bolstered by their confidence.

Tomorrow morning we’ll all head out to the Green in Lexington. I’m just hoping there won’t be any trouble there.

Sister Sister

April 11th, 2013 § 1 comment § permalink

So apparently yesterday was some new ridiculous made-up holiday called Sibling Day. If Wikipedia says it, then you know it must be so. Alas, I was blissfully unaware of this holiday until the profusion of Facebook posts and articles on Huffington Post.

Now, while I’m not buying into any cheesy holiday–and I know my sister has my back on this–who am I to refuse a chance to post this lovely picture of my sister and I on a trip to New York City in 1982. My expression tells you everything you need to know about me, my state of mind, and what I thought of being a 14 year old on a trip with her grandparents to New York. And yes, you may be jealous of my glasses. They were totally bitchin’.

This charming photo was taken during my “I’m a film student therefore everything I do must be arty” phase (although this was taken about six months after I graduated college). I dragged Tweeds to Europe and then proceeded to pose her awkwardly in every tourist site we passed. This is a photo of us taken in a mirror. I have no idea at what we were looking.

Yes, I did not acknowledge Sibling Day. But then neither did she. And my current favorite person is Keaton, as she is the person who most recently brought me Peeps. Yes, folks. That is right. My affections can be bought with cold, hard Peeps. (I mean “hard,” too; Peeps are best stale.)

So, Tweeds, next year you’ll have to step up your game. I will expect you to wake me up with a peanut butter sandwich and a Diet Coke. Otherwise, you can forget about me driving you to school in a timely manner. And you know you hate being late for debate.

A Day of Rememberance

April 8th, 2013 § 1 comment § permalink

People who know me outside of this blog know that I’m obsessed–and obsessed is an understatement here–with genealogy. I’ve let it take over a huge portion of my life, as I’m able to chalk it up to “research.” As someone who is interested in writing about different periods of time, I’m using what I find as the basis for writing. All it takes is one small detail, one tidbit and my mind is reeling and I wonder, “What’s the story behind that?” Since I’ll never know the real stories, I simply make up my own. Or, even if I do know the story, I’ll make up what I think is a better story.

When I began this endeavor, all I had was a general outline of a family tree my grandfather had started many years ago, in the days before the Internet and Skype and digital photography. Now, I use Ancestry.com to make my tree and I’m able to share it with family members who add information or as a way to connect with relatives I didn’t even know I had. Thanks to technology, I’ve been able to fill in many gaps, find pictures, gravestones, records, people.

One of the things that always disturbed me, on that original family tree, were all the places where the line ended abruptly. A single name, nothing more, and the notation, “D 1941.”

My great-grandfather and my great-grandmother–on the sheet they are the ones who made it out, Abe and Yetta–were from the same town in Latvia, Varaklani (spelled oh-so-many ways, but that is the current spelling). In 1897, Jews made up 75% of the population in the town. Today, as I understand it, there is a single Jewish family still living there. On my great-grandmother’s side, there were as many “dead ends” on the family tree. Yad Vashem, the Holocaust memorial in Israel, keeps a record of all who have perished. Survivors post Pages of Testimony of those who were killed. Page after page of my Varaklani relatives reads a variation of the same: “1941 Shot by Germans.”

Today is Yom HaShoah–Holocaust Remembrance Day. The day that Jewish people recall the lives of those who were lost. Now that I know so many of the names, now that I see how much of my family died, I feel a need to speak their names, to let the world know that they are remembered. My family, at least the ones I know about:

Killed in Varaklani:
My great-great grandfather, Youssel Tania Kapelovich, 1848-1941
My great-great grandmother, Tania Raiza Kapelovich, ?-1941
Lazer Kapelovich, 1889-1941
Lea-Mara Kapelovich, 1882-1941
Mana Kapelovich, 1920-1942 (in Leningrad)
Peretz Kapelovich 1922-1941
Rachel Kapelovich, 1924-1941
Moshe Kapelovich, 1926-1941
Lea Racha Kapelovich, 1930-1941
Riva Kapelovich, 1886-1941
Pesse Kapelovich Gudman, 1881-1941
Micha Shana Kapelovich Dimant, ?-1941
David Dimant, ?-1941
Itzick Dimant, ?-1941
Peretz Dimant, ?-1941
Tirza Dimant, ?-1941
Sara Dimant, 1877-1941
Reuven Kapelovich, 1896-1941
Riva Kapelovich, ?-1941
Labe Kopelovitz, ?-1941
Mufsha Kopelovitz, ?-1941
Yankel Kopelovitz, ?-1941
Benzion Dorogoi, 1857-1941
Enta Vainer Dorogoi, 1864-1941
Chaya Leah Dorogoi Jucha, 1891-1941
Mordechai Leib Jucha, 1886-1941
Symcha David Jucha, 1924-1941
David Dorogoi, 1901-1941
Rajzia Dorogoi, 1905-1941
Baruch Dorogoi, 1907-1941
Yentke Dorogoi, 1935-1941
Mikhail Dorogoi, 1936-1941

Killed in Kobryn, Belarus (read “From an Eyewitness”):
my great-great grandfather, Yitzak Leder 1862-1941
his second wife, Sarah Feignbaum Leder
his children (from both his marriages):
Velvel Leder
Chaya Leder
Leah Leder
Miriam Leder
Pinchas Leader

Killed in a camp after being sent from Suwalki to Biala Podlaska
My great-great grandfather, Chaim Brennholz, 1864-194?
Yaacob Brenholc, who was the coach of the Maccabee’s soccer team in Suwalki, Poland, perished in the Holocaust, but we don’t know where or when.

I know I will uncover more names on my family tree, more dead ends. I worry about the day that no one remembers those who were killed, when the survivors are all gone, and the Holocaust is merely an entry in a history book. We need to remember them all–those who were strong and fought (these photos are particularly moving) and those who were strong and lost. My family.

We must remember. Never again.

Why Run When You Can Walk

April 6th, 2013 § Comments Off on Why Run When You Can Walk § permalink

With my foot still in pain, I’m trying something quite new, quite different this morning. It’s an odd kind of exercise, but one that’s apparently been around for a while, but just hasn’t been something that appealed to me when I was a young and able-bodied person. I always thought this was something I might try when I’m old. Am I old?

Anyway, I’m meeting the Duchess this morning for this thing called “walking.” Apparently it’s in many ways it’s similar to running, but without the harsh pouding. But the thing is, I have no idea how one dresses for this activity. It’s currently 33 degrees/feels like 22. (Some day I’ll look back on this post and do a double take and think, “Wait, I thought this post was from April!”) Running means a pair of running pants and a long-sleeved shirt because after fifteen minutes, I’ll be sweating. But I’m pretty sure one does not sweat the same way on this walk-thing.

At first I suspected I was overreacting by not running, but one late-night dance party with my kids (and, yes, “late night”=9 p.m., so maybe I am old) and I’m hobbling. My dance moves never graduated from the ’80s jump up and down. I took the kids on a walk down memory lane, playing with the songs from my childhood. It started with “Run Joey Run,” the first 45 I ever bought (Pie: “What’s a 45?”). We moved on to Pink Floyd (Pie: “Pink Floyd? She is going to be awesome! Wait, that’s Pink Floyd? I hate Pink Floyd.”) We hit a little Depeche Mode (Me: “I could have sworn I had this song. Oh, wait, it was on a mixed tape.” Pie: “What’s a mixed tape?”). Meanwhile, the boy excels at the Robot (thank you “Mr. Roboto) and he can groove Billy Squier (cue making Adam uncomfortable as I explain what “The Stroke” is actually about). An excellent night. A hobbled foot. Such is life.

So I’m off to try this new-fangled exercise. We’ll see how it goes!

Scientific Minds

April 3rd, 2013 § Comments Off on Scientific Minds § permalink

Lately I’ve been super cranky and I actually started a post that simply listed all of my complaints: I sliced my finger cutting onions leaving a trail of blood when I started to type; Adam left for a conference in California so Pie decided to see how many meltdowns she could have in an 18-hour period; I appear to have plantar facisitis (at least that’s what my medical experts, Dr. Internet and her able assistant Nurse Duchess, inform me) so I’m stuck using the elliptical for a week, which is boring and I can’t watch morning news as it depresses me, but there’s nothing good on demand so I keep watching these HBO documentaries which turn out are even more depressing than the news, and the one I watched this morning sucker punched me with a horrific ending that came out of nowhere; sleep has been lacking because Pie is having nightmares again, and I probably will have some tonight after that documentary ending…

But you’re not going to get that post. Because something happened that made everything right in the world again. Passover ended last night. So I just devoured an entire box of Peeps for breakfast.

Happiness can be as simple as a box of sugar.

Last week the kids’ school had a Math and Science Night, and for it they invited the 3rd to 5th graders to submit a science fair project. That 80 kids (working both individually and in teams of two or three) turned it almost 50 projects when there was no credit given and no prizes awarded–these projects were simply for the love of science–impressed me mightily. My own son, as I’ve mentioned before, did an experiment that necessitated many petri dishes of bacteria growing on my dining room table.

He tested various products on the bacteria to determine what killed it the best. Hand sanitizer worked the best. Cleaning products worked surprisingly poorly. Coke did a terrible job. The hand sanitizer soon became bacteria filled again and the boy hypothesized that once the alcohol in the sanitizer evaporated, the bacteria then re-grew. Clever boy.

He clearly gets it from me. Evidence: My elementary school science fair project.

It is a stunning display of an “eaten seagrape leaf” and a “not eaten seagrape leaf.” Notice the three holes? That’s where I had collected bugs. You see, the bugs ate one leaf. They didn’t eat the other leaf. But the bugs I caught? If you look carefully, you can see that I noted that the bugs all died. That’s what happens when you put them in little jars with the lids on. (Note, my father informs me that I received a blue ribbon for this mind-blowing discovery; when I asked how that was possible, he said it was possibly the only child-created science project in the room.)

Ah, the science genius. You can feel it flowing from my veins into my son’s.

Of course, it turns out the boy had an ulterior motive for doing the project. He wants to go to a private school in 7th grade. One that’s notoriously hard to get into. When the fair was over, he said to me, “I can put that on my school application, can’t I?”

It’s all good. Because I still have another box of Peeps waiting for me.

The Plagues

March 24th, 2013 § Comments Off on The Plagues § permalink

Twas the night before Pesah, when all through the house
the mother was stirring, with gefilte fish on her blouse.
The haggadot, homemade, were printed with care,
In hopes that Elijah soon would be there.

The hamtez was gone, not a crumb of bread,
While visions of haroset danced in her head.
And boychick in his yarmulke, and matzah in wrap,
The table all set, at which no one better nap.

On Friday after school, the girl was playing with a friend after school at the playground. They bent their heads together to tell secrets, as second grade girls are wont to do, but all I could see were images of the letter sent home a couple of days earlier: “second grade… lice… nits… check your child…”

“Pie, watch your hair!” I yelled across the climbing structures.

On the way home, I reminded her, “You have to be careful! You don’t want to get lice!”

She thought for a moment and then said, “But wouldn’t it be appropriate? After all Passover is Monday night and lice was one of the plagues! We’d just be re-creating one of the plagues! That would be okay!”

I looked at her and couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. So I said, “Listen, you really want a plague? I’ll cut myself when I chop the apples. Blood was a plague. And I’d much rather have my blood than any lice in the house.”

That seemed to appease her. Now I just hope she doesn’t hold me to it!

(For the Duchess and my other goyim friends:
note: the underline h is a guttural sound, the ch
Pesah=the Hebrew word for Passover
haggadot=the plural of haggadah, the book we read at our Passover meal, which is called the seder
hametz=the leavened foods that are forbidden during Passover
haroset=a yummy mixture usually of apples, nuts, cinnamon, honey, and sweet wine, which symbolizes the mortar used by the Hebrew slaves when making bricks
yarmulke=the head-covering men and some women wear)

It’s Not You, It’s Me

March 20th, 2013 § 1 comment § permalink

I’ve been cheating on you.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I really thought this would last forever, and if you’ll bear with me, I’m willing to make this work. I don’t want to abandon everything. We’ve had 11 1/2 good years together, and we can have 11 1/2 more.

But, yes, I am cheating. And I don’t plan to stop. While you have been fun and lighthearted and it’s been great hanging out and chatting about Doodles and Pie and the cast of characters that make up my life, lately I’ve been wanting something more, something else. Not better, mind you. Just different. I have other interests, other things I wish to explore. Writing. History. Grammar. Things I know you tolerate, but don’t pine for. I appreciate you putting up with my fetishes, but I found a place where I can let them all hang out. So, yes. I confess. I’m cheating. I have a second blog.

It doesn’t mean anything to me, I swear. You will always be my first love. But I need to see this through. Maybe it will go nowhere. Who knows? But I need to see where this can take me.

I swear, it’s not you. It’s me. I still love you. I hope we can still be friends. xxxooo

Breather

March 18th, 2013 § Comments Off on Breather § permalink

Shall we start by saying that Punxsutawney Phil is a big fat liar? The groundhog promised us an early spring. Guess who’s serving up groundhog for dinner tonight? Stupid Phil.

This morning I ran in as many layers as I did in January. Whenever I run in the brutal cold, I come home with huge swathes of red on my body, and it itches like all heck. I have to wait as long as I can to shower as when I do, the cold patches start to burn like pins pricking all over my body. I thought that this happened to everyone, but according to my friend (and running partner) the Duchess*, I have an actual honest-to-goodness known “thing” (albeit to a minor degree): It’s called Cold urticaria. I feel so special now!

At this one moment in time, I have that feeling of utter freedom as I’m between things. Last week I sent both my revised novel and marketing plan to my agent. Yesterday was the Women’s Seder at my synagogue, of which I am co-chair. It’s a big event, where we spend a year writing a new haggadah and then we have the actual planning/doing of the seder itself, which was no small feat. I was excited that we had 68 women come, and it seemed to be a rousing event.

(Of course, as I was leaving–wearing an actual skirt, jewelry, and a shirt with no rips [well, I thought there were no rips; one was discovered later, but the intention was there], I asked the boy, “How do I look?” He, never taking his eyes off the computer, answered, “Fine.” That boy is his father’s child through and through.)

So at this moment, I have no deadlines more pressing than next Monday’s Passover seder. There will be 20 of us, but others folks are helping with the cooking and I’ve got an entire week to prep, which is more than I’ve ever had, I think.

Time to tackle the more mundane to-do list and sneak in a movie or two off Netflix! Yea!

*By the way, I acknowledge that it’s odd that I haven’t mentioned this friend before, as she’s been my most faithful running partner for about two years now; however, running takes place in a “vault.” Everything said on a run is absolutely secret, as they’re basically 6-mile therapy sessions, so most of what I would say about her, I can’t, because it’s been vaulted. Hence, she is a mystery woman to you all.

Who I Am

I read, I write, I occasionally look to make sure my kids aren't playing with matches.

My novel, MODERN GIRLS will be coming out from NAL in the spring of 2016.

I mostly update the writing blog these days, so find me over there.

More about me and my writing.
Where to Find Me

jenny at jennyandadam.com

Follow @j_s_brown

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Writing Blog: Jennifer S. Brown

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