Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

Growing up, my relatives were far-flung: a set of grandparents deep in Texas, another in Virginia and outcrops of cousins across the Eastern Seaboard.  No one but my nuclear family lived out West in Oregon and so, to me, seeing family meant long plane rides and winter delays all for brief weekends with people I loved without knowing very well.  My parents built a life in Portland far from their original homes—a life that was worth the distance. We existed as a four-person unit miles away from anyone else who shared our blood. From my point of view, a generation removed, this cross-country family situation was normal; I knew nothing more intimate.  We saw each other when we saw each other.   Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles were an occasional, special presence—not every day, never ordinary.  

This is the norm for many people, but in the past few years I’ve started to wonder whether it needs to be mine.  I come from a city I love, one whose cool factor develops much faster than my own, and my family is not one from which to run.  But in spite of every reason to stay put, I find myself very far away.  My motive for distance is not linked to escape.  There was no boring suburb, no great familial dysfunction that I needed to mediate with miles, but from a young age, I knew I would leave home. My parents did it, and so would I. My first move was mild and contained: a 2-hour flight or 20-hour drive to Southern California for four short years. At the end, though, a country full of new cities opened up and I found myself in Boston then New York. Three years later, I still find myself a day’s worth of travel and three time zones away from my beloved city and beloved family.  In most every way, this is the right choice for right now, but around the holidays—the most family-oriented time of year—I take pause.  

I start thinking about distance when seeing my family a few times every year means two $50 cab rides, a $500 flight, a possible delay because of weather, bad airport food at Newark and a pit in my stomach when I have to say goodbye after a week. This is when I start to question whether it’s worth it.  Right now, the answer is resoundingly yes, but I wonder if this yes will expire.  The more enmeshed you get in a city—its jobs, its friends, its men, its beauty—it becomes harder and harder to leave.  But the solution can’t be to leave somewhere before you start to love it too much. That’s low-level depravity.  Then again, if you do want to move back home, the window of opportunity might not be forever open. The Internet, iMessage and Skype give those of us living far away a false sense of closeness--like maybe we could do this forever.  Even with cellphones, 4,000 miles is still 4,000 miles. 

It’s hit me recently that I can make the choice to live close to my family, to make relatives a year-round presence, not a holiday rarity. It’s weird to think that the decisions I make now have the power to reverse a trend for the next generation. My parents don’t pressure me, but I know it’s on their mind, too.  While they’re proud to have a daughter living in the big city, they’re also wondering when she’s coming back. When I mention a new boy, my mom always asks, half-teasing: “Is he Jewish?” Now she’s added on a more-pressing query: “Is he from the West Coast?” If not, “How does he feel about Portland?”

 

Pearls of Wisdom

In my 25 years, I've learned mostly the following:

1.       Passing out before midnight on a Saturday night doesn’t make you lame, it makes you confident.

2.       Cottage cheese looks gross, but tastes amazing.

3.       Never do something yourself when you could bribe your sibling to do it for you.

4.       Although tempting, it’s usually a bad idea to keep your credit card in your back pocket rather than tucked safely in your wallet.

5.       It’s worth spending money on soft sheets and name brand hair products.

6.       Don't let anyone tell you coffee is bad for you.

7.       Belting an outfit really does make you look skinny.

8.       Dance parties are usually more satisfying in your kitchen than in a bar, particularly when they include a certain Wiley Goy.

9.       Eating pizza while drinking is never a bad idea.  Eating pizza is never a bad idea.

10.   Sometimes 12-year-olds have great taste in music.

11.   Never use a glue trap to catch a mouse unless you’re cold-hearted.

12.   Keep your deodorant in the fridge if the temperature gets above 90.

13.   Leave home at least twice.

14.   Procrastinate a lot, and then work harder.

15.    Childhood friends are worth keeping around, because you never know when you might all end up in NYC.

16.   Beware the transformative power of matching pajama sets.

17.   Bring plenty of water on all outdoorsy endeavors.

18.   Reunite.

19.   Travel far away when you have the money, but especially when you have the time.

20.   Create a secret language so you can be judgmental in public.

21.   Get a few speeding tickets because going fast is fun.

22.   Go on long walks with coffee and sandals.

23.   Consider meat.

24.   When shopping, never wear overalls, a sports bra, skinny jeans or shoes that tie.

25.   Flop frequently and flop well. 

Good Reads, Part 2

If Michiko Kakutani can do it, so can I.  Here's what's on my nighstand lately:

The Marriage Plot, by Jeffrey Eugenides: When a writer waits ten years between books, it’s hard to meet readers’ expectations.  Eugenides’ new book is criticized for its failure to live up to his first two novels—the inventive Virgin Suicides and Middlesex.  And it’s true: The Marriage Plot is not as original, thought provoking or beautiful as Eugenides’ earlier work, but this comparative critique doesn’t take us very far. The book is still good.  The novel chronicles the intertwined lives of three Brown graduates trying to keep love and intellectualism alive during the post-college letdown.  As in his previous novels, Eugenides once again showcases his masterful ability to capture—with dry humor and attention to detail—what it feels like to be young and lost. The book is about intellectual snobs and, as such, will appeal mostly to readers who have intimate knowledge of life on an elite college campus (certainly no one I know).  The Marriage Plot is a big, graceful novel in the finest sense: multigenerational, global and full of trial and tribulation. 

The Tiger’s Wife, by Tea Obreht: So much contemporary fiction is about dysfunctional people and their dysfunctional relationships, families and jobs.  In its attempt to capture what life is like at the beginning of the 21^st century, contemporary American fiction often fails to provide readers with the escapism for which literature is known.  Realistic fiction is a little bit too real.  24-year-old Obreht’s debut novel defies this trend by offering up a novel rife with fable, allegory and history—the Eastern European answer to magical realism.  Set in the Balkans, The Tiger’s Wife tells the story of a young doctor trying to uncover the mystery surrounding her beloved grandfather’s death.   Obreht weaves in a tale about a village haunted by a seductive tiger and another about a Deathless Man who cannot himself die but can predict the fate of others.  The darkly beautiful book is driven not by characters and their neuroses, but by a culture so foreign and magical that it’s easy to escape into Obreht’s careful storytelling.

“The Laramie Project” by Moises Kaufman and the Tectonic Theater Project:  Because most of my life is consumed with what I teach, it seems appropriate to recommend what I’m teaching.  In 1998, gay Wyoming college student Matthew Shepard was brutally murdered in what became the catalyst for the last decade’s hate crime legislation.  Immediately following the murder, members of the Tectonic Theater Project interviewed everyone associated with the incident and compiled their interviews into a play. “The Laramie Project” is a powerful exploration of hate, intolerance and the unforgettable influence of one event on a small community.  Plus, if you need a copy, I have 90.

Open City, by Teju Cole: This book isn’t about much, but it’s about something with which I’m very familiar: long walks around New York City.  The protagonist is a foreign doctor living on the Upper West Side who takes long, solo walks around the city, which afford him contemplation, introspection and interaction.  In his descriptions of Manhattan, Cole intimately captures what it feels like to live in a city that draws us in, but leaves us lonely.  Open City offers only a shred of plot, but draws readers in with nuanced description and precise observation. 

Bossypants, by Tina Fey: When this book came out, I was against it for myriad reasons, including but not limited to Fey’s theft of my memoir title.  The other reasons can be categorized under literary snobbishness.  I finally took the plunge when I got a free copy for my school’s adult book club (like, for adults, not XXX). The hype is true enough: parts of the books are literally laugh-out-loud funny.  Fey gives sage beauty advice that I found personally helpful: always wear a bra because you’ll never regret it.  Fey pieces together a coherent book from lists, scripts, drawings, fan mail and childhood stories.  Though self-deprecating at times, the reader never doubts that Fey is proud of her accomplishments and what they mean for the world of comedy. The ending is the weakpoint: a devolution into what it means to be a mother with a high-power career that reads a bit too much like a late-night diary entry.  Regardless, Bossypants is honest, funny and the perfect Subway read.

The More You Know

Sex and the City aired in 1998 when I was 12 years old and knew very little about the city and far less about sex. For better or for worse, by the time I was 14 its 40 minute installments became a facet of my education in both topics. My girlfriends and I were obsessed with the show, devouring it despite parental objections.  We were adolescent devotees of a show designed for women much older than the set who truly adored it.    After calling to check for availability, we’d trek to the video store to pick up the next DVD installment of the latest season. We had neither HBO nor driver’s licenses to aid in our quest.  Enraptured by all we did not understand, we’d re-watch episode after episode in whatever basement offered the least likely chance of a dad popping in during a particularly rousing climax.      

I don’t remember if we found Sex and the City funny. I can’t imagine we got many of the jokes—so dependent on concepts just grazing our consciousness. Only in our delusional minds could we empathize with or relate to the escapades of wealthy single women in Manhattan. And yet we were fascinated with the fairy tale stories because of their glimmer of attainability.  A glimpse into the lives of women who bore little resemblance to us or anyone we knew but also seemed like not entirely inconceivable iterations of our adolescent selves.  Perhaps if life took certain turns, we too could be Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha, sipping cocktails, romping around in dozens of Manhattan bedrooms, then talking about it over brunch. Because my hair was curly, I would be Carrie rather than the red-headed cynic whose character more closely resembled who I would become ten years later.  

In hindsight—and as a middle school teacher—I understand my parents’ objections. We were probably too young to be watching a show that was full of nudity and thematic questionability, but every girl whose mother would let her was watching on similar subterranean screens across the country.  I wonder about the effect of Sex and The City on our early understanding of dating, gender politics and sex itself.  Was watching dozens of raunchy episodes innocuous or influential to our development?  I think of Sex and the City as something of my generation, but in reality, weren’t we a little young to be watching?    

Recently, two girlfriends and I downloaded a season of Sex and the City on iTunes—the modern day DVD for the HBO-less among us.  These are the same two girlfriends—the rotating Samantha and Charlotte to my Carrie—who I watched these same episodes with years ago.  Only now we are twentysomethings living in New York rather than brace-faced teenagers living in Portland. On the surface, the resemblance doesn’t amount to much other than gender and location. We are teachers and students, not media reps and sex columnists. We live in Brooklyn and buy cheap wine. The experience was nostalgic, but also unsettling.  In the most oxymoronic way, Sex and the City seemed more real fantasy or fake reality than ever. 

My roommate remarked as the episode entitled “are all men freaks?” came to its voiceover conclusion: “this doesn’t seem so funny anymore.”  And she’s right.   With more knowledge of both sex and the city, the plotlines are more relatable, but lilt toward depressing.  We laughed at the nineties clothing, but couldn’t find much comedy in the plotlines.  Despite questionable content, maybe Sex and the City is better for girls than women. Girls who wonder if this reality could someday be their own rather than women who worry that maybe it really is.    

Dar Gracias

I am beyond thankful for the same things all lucky people are thankful for: my friends, my family, my job, my health.  My friends are a step above.  The ones in New York make living across the country from home a wonderful, communal experience, and the others who are far flung remind me it's worth traveling and picking up the phone.  My family, too--people who live far away, but talk like me and look like me and love me unconditionally; I am thankful to spend this holiday together.  I am thankful for my job.  Somehow, waking up at 5:30 in the morning feels okay when you get to work with inspiring people, laugh all day long and never doubt that you are doing something important and meaningful.  I am thankful, too, for my youth and health--my only real concern being spots from too much sun. For all this, I give thanks and knock on wood. 

On this holiday that asks for reflection and thanks, I want to thank a few other things as well: 


The B62 bus: I take this bus to work every morning at 6:26am. I get on at the beginning of the line, and although I know the exact time of departure, I am thankful that if the bus driver sees me crossing the street a minute late, he'll hold up traffic to wait for me.  I'm thankful for the gossipy, Christian ladies who get on 10 minutes later to entertain me, and I'm thankful for the sleepy kids who ride it all the way to school.

Hummus: Because it comes in many delicious flavors, and I'm not sure I could be a vegetarian without its protein-y goodness.

Down comforters: My mom taught me years ago that the best way to sleep is beneath only a down comforter. We live in a household free of top sheets.  I am thankful for a blanket that provides cozy warmth in the winter and comforting weight in the summer.

Coffee: For ritual, warmth and the ability to talk to adolescents at 7:30 in the morning, I am eternally thankful.

The bagel guy: I am thankful for this guy who wears gold chains and a velour jacket and tells me to "have a great day, babe" when he gives me my fresh-outta-the-oven bagel at 6:15 in the morning. 

Gchat: Some may try to swear off techy addictions, but in fact I'm thankful for mine.  Though a powerful tool for procrastination, Gchat allows me to chat with friends across the country during the work day. I can look at bridesmaids dresses with Julianne, talk about weekend plans with Claire and make fun of Ian all while "getting work done." I am also thankful for my worrisome but useful ability to multitask.

My students: The best and worst part of every day. I am thankful for 75 kids with all different personalities, one of whom asked if he could come to Texas with me because he's always wanted to ride a horse.


Paul Simon: I am thankful for music that never gets old and fits every occasion besides Saturday night.  From roommate dance parties to morning productivity sessions, I am thankful for "Graceland."

Happy Thanksgiving!

Don't Mess

Every person could have been many things she is not. Who you end up is the result of the choices you make, but also choices others made long before your birth.  To this end, I sometimes remind myself I could have been a Texan.  A card-carrying member of that most prideful, contentious state.  My almost identity is equal parts dodged bullet and missed opportunity.  Disturbing, yes, but also intriguing.  A very different fate that so easily could have been my own.

My mom is a Texan living in Oregon.  There are probably more Texans living in Oregon than there are Oregonians living in Texas, but she is a rare breed nonetheless.  Generally speaking, Texans don’t leave Texas. A fierce loyalty dictates you stay in state.  People simply see no reason to leave its expansive boundaries.  My mother, the loveable black sheep, did exactly that: packed her bags for faraway places like Colorado, Massachusetts and ultimately Oregon where she landed and would not leave.  And because of those choices made years before my birth, I am not a Texan but instead its antithesis: a first-generation Oregonian. 

In Oregon, Texas is not well-liked. Texas is everything Oregon abhors contained in one land mass: the Bush family, SUV’s, beef far from free-range, beer far from micro, sticky air and flatness.  There’s a widespread dislike of Texas, particularly among those who have never been and never plan to go.  The haters consider Austin the exception, a liberal oasis in a desert of belt buckles and homophobia, but prefer not to sully its name by association with the nation’s most despicable state.  Texas is the scapegoat for all that’s wrong in our country; Texas has encroached on us before and it could happen again at any time.  Cue hysteria, phobia.  Oregonians and liberals nationwide just don’t like Texas.  

When I was a kid and sometimes still today, I’m often met with thinly-veiled distaste when I tell people I’ll be spending a holiday in the land of Texas.

“Really?? Why?”

“Does your family own guns? Do they hunt?”

“Do you actually like it there?”

The answer is yes, I do like it there, but not in the way I like trendier locales like New York City or San Francisco.  I like the way Texas smells, like humid air, pinto beans cooked long in animal fat and my grandma’s Cover Girl foundation. I like driving a gigantic, gas-guzzling SUV high above the freeway even though it goes against every liberal sensibility I swear by.  I like that my cousins listen to country, and that my cowboy boots are actually from D&D Ranch and Supply. I like salty, fatty Tex-Mex from places that start with El and La. Places that are neither clean nor vegetarian.  And I like that I know how to ride a horse and elongate my vowels. 

So I staunchly defend Texas, but I do not wish I were from Texas. I like too many things about being an Oregonian, so I'm content to call Texas home once removed. Still, though, had my mother done what was expected of her, I would be a Texan. No questions asked, most likely there to stay.  If you change something crucial about your identity—the state from which you hail, for example—how much of you really changes?  That, I do not know.  What I do know is that tomorrow I'm getting on a plane heading South not West, and it's exactly the direction I want to fly. 

I Like The Way You Move

My teacher training program drilled the moves of classroom management into my mind until I was dreaming in teacher-speak.  I mean moves in the most literal sense.  Plays like in Football, moves like in chess, calculated game at a bar.  It was a packaged deal: learn to control a classroom of hormonal adolescents in nine easy steps (no money back guarantee, though).  This precise method to managing the madness is progressive and mostly effective, a hallmark of the “no-excuses” classroom.   And for this method, my sanity is forever grateful.  Distill something massive into an exact, replicable science and practice, practice, practice until the impossible becomes second nature.  Like a puppet master, use non-verbals and hand gestures to make kids sit up, turn around, face forward.  Modulate your voice while delivering consequences.  Stop and stare.  Self-interrupt.  Be emotionally constant. 

I had a reunion dinner this week with several of the people who completed the teacher training program with me.  We talked about the endless perks of being a second-year teacher.  My friend Andrew mentioned that he lets his personality show through a lot more in the classroom—that he actually uses his personality as a management tool.  While this move was never taught in our teacher training curriculum, I got what he meant.  My teacher-self is no longer at odds with my normal-self, she’s just a slightly more-in-control version with frumpier clothes.  No longer a manic Sybil, my unified self is contented.  My classroom is also a much saner place.  This is probably not a coincidence.

This prescribed method of classroom management can look like a robo-teacher conducting a tiny military, but this doesn’t have to be the case.  What my program failed to emphasize—or maybe a nuance I failed to internalize—is that within this disciplined framework, there is ample room for personality and modification.  That, in concert with a firm background in these moves, your personality is the single greatest classroom management tool you’ve got.  Conversely, if you’re lacking in the personality department, these moves may lose their effectiveness. 

More than anything, kids long to see humanity in their teachers.  To know that you make jokes and laugh when things are ridiculous. To know that you do things (sub-free things) on the weekend, have interests and hobbies and brothers and sisters.  To know that you are quirky just like them. Kids respect personality more than much else.  A shared understanding of what’s happening around us makes the classroom a happier space.  I faulted my program for removing the humanity and personality from the profession.  It seemed to clash so irreconcilably with my West Coast sentiments.  I see now, though, that with a firm grasp of the moves, you free up space to layer on personality and use it to your advantage.  Within reason, imbuing your teacher self with your normal self yields great results. 

Why We Slide

I spent many years of my life under the impression that I loved art museums.   Those monoliths of culture, those labyrinths housing the relics of our time, those places where I belonged and felt inspired.  I knew museums were important, the type of thing I was supposed to love, and so I dutifully visited their hallowed hallways. I traipsed through museums in several continents and dozens of cities—with friends, family, boyfriends and strangers—until they turned into a giant unrecognizable blob of oil paint and gift shops.   But I didn’t admit that to myself.  I was a proud museum-goer, pretentiously soaking up culture and loving every ounce of artsy cred I was getting.  

It wasn’t until recently that I started to wonder about me and the museum—coincidentally, the pending title of my upcoming instructional manual on how to pretend you like museums.  As my already-pathetic attention span dwindles down to close to nothing, I find it increasingly difficult to buy into the idea that I love museums.  I have loved specific museums and specific exhibits, but I’ve begun to realize that I might not be the museum type I once assumed I was.  Huge buildings that require quiet contemplation without definitive end time are not exactly my thing.  This realization is mildly disorienting.  Have I changed as a person or was I lying to myself all along?

My best friend Majken is a graduate student in museum studies.  Not only is she a museum lover in the purest sense, but she’s interested in what museums say about society, what role they play in our communities, how they function in a much broader sense.  Majken’s totally genuine interest in museums is awesome.  Talking to her about this field, I’ve realized a few things that shed light on me and the museum. Not all museums are for everyone. It’s okay if I like some museums—read: small, interactive ones—and would rather avoid others.  It’s okay if I don’t want to look at 16^th Century Italian art for very long. Or ever.   In some ways, this helps legitimize my budding identification as a non-museum lover. I can pick and choose which museums I visit and for how long.  This is a relief.  I can casually like museums.   Love some, abhor others, spend no more than an hour in any one.   

This brings me to the slide.  I’ve always liked the New Museum—small, modern, close to Brooklyn, with a sweet roof-deck and bookstore attached.  When I heard the New Museum was installing a 40-foot slide I was as excited as most 24-year-olds get when they hear the word slide.  I went to the exhibit—Carsten Holler—on opening weekend and waited an hour to race down a three-story tunnel slide on the Bowery on a strip of canvas.  In addition to the slide, there was a mirrored carousel, a nude sensory deprivation-tank and upside down goggles.  I’m not sure if any of this is art. If it is art, I’m not sure it’s any good or what it means. Moreover, I'm not sure I care. What I do know is that the exhibit was really fun.  Kids and adults were chatting, laughing, experiencing the odd dissonance between playground and art museum.   As I left the museum, I didn’t feel that faux-sense of cultural validation—thank God that’s over and I can eat—but I did feel happy and intrigued.  Maybe, for me and others in my camp, that’s exactly what we need from a Sunday trip to the museum.

   

Baring All on October 31

I had catch-up dinners with two different friends this week. Once we'd covered job, friends and love life, we got into what really matters: Halloween. Fodder for conversation. Costume decisions and bar-hopping routes are the just the tip of the Halloween iceberg, entry points into a more philosophical discussion. For twentysomethings still riding high on the coattails of college, Halloween is an institution—everyone’s favorite or least favorite holiday—rife with story, connotation and debate.  

Yesterday, I got an email from a college friend—subject line “Halloween”— saying only: “I’ve figured out a way to my wear my nude bodysuit again this year!”  Like your favorite black cardigan, a nude body suit is a useful transition piece—from Lady Godiva to the Coppertone Girl to a Never Nude to a streaker.  When you shell out for such an item at the Claremont, California sex shop, you expect it to deliver until it gets too snug.  For those who have made similar investments, rest easy: Slutty Halloween is here to stay.  Your tight-fitting nude bodysuit will always be en vogue on October 31. 

For whatever reason, the holiday formerly marked by Reeses Cups and friendly ghosts has become a nationwide slutfest starting around age 18. From unknown origins, Halloween has burgeoned into a yearly excuse to bare all under infinite guises. 

The first dinner was Brooklyn Thai with a friend who also experienced life as a women’s college undergraduate. As such, we share a similar set of jumbled feminist values that we can conveniently pull out or obscure at will. She expressed a general distaste for slutty Halloween, a tradition she forcefully defies every year.   Intellectually, I totally agree.  There’s a feminist disconnect inherent in Slutty Halloween that doesn’t sit well when I stop to think about it. How is it that empowered women spout gender theory in co-ed classes, best their male counterparts on exams and hold their own in every professional field, yet still relish the autumn opportunity to dress like a costumed slut and let booze drip down their insides for the benefit of barely-costumed men? More personally: How is it that I studied feminist literature with professors I admire and still dressed up as a slutty Pikachu one year? And, embarrassingly generic, a slutty firefighter the next?  Couldn’t I have just been Jane Austen?

The feminist in me objects to the objectification, the explicit provocation for men who spend little time on their own costumes.  But a new strand of feminism insists that we’re past all that—that the choice to dress provocatively is empowering in its own right. The stereotyped posterchild for this way of thinking is Samantha from “Sex and the City.”  As powerful women, we can do what we want with our bodies and our wardrobe. It shouldn’t affect who we are or where we stand.  In some ways, Halloween embodies this power of choice, but I do think the costumes would make Betty Friedan and co. blush for more than one reason.   It doesn’t quite add up, but the question is: Does the apparent disconnect really matter? Of all the feminist battles to fight, is Slutty Halloween really worth our time?

The second dinner was Manhattan Italian with a close male friend from college, someone whom I’d probably drunkenly encountered on four separate Halloweens.  Sipping red wine, we rehashed our college costumes.  When I got to “cowgirl,” he repeated twice, “oh yeah. I remember that one.”  While my friend is mostly an upstanding gentleman, I had a feeling his memory was more exposed pushup bra and denim mini skirt than the  historical accuracy of my Annie Oakley—handstiched boots and bolo tie imported directly from the Lone Star State.  But he can’t be blamed. I dressed up as a sexy cowgirl of my own free will, implicitly for the benefit of the men I was sure to encounter.

Southern California was the perfect backdrop for slutty Halloween.  Still warm well into October, we had little choice but to masquerade as glorified prostitutes once a year (one year, a group ironically dressed up as actual prostitutes, because why not?) Anything can be turned slutty—the hoochier the better.   At the time, I don’t think dressing up as a non-slutty nurse, lobster, cadaver, Pokemon, Sarah Palin, Steve Jobs even crossed my mind. Why bother going out? Slutty Halloween is institutionalized. Well into our twenties, we can’t shake the connotation, nor do most seem to want to.  The conservative among us get a chance to cut loose and the already loose among us are vindicated.  The formerly-wholesome holiday has officially been degraded, but only the slimmest minority seems to want to reverse the trend: http://takebackhalloween.org/.  

I asked a coworker for her thoughts on Slutty Halloween. “Well, it works,” she responded, and explained that she met a long-term boyfriend at a Halloween party.  I was reminded of my college roommate, who is now engaged to a man she started dating on Halloween.  I doubt either of these respectable women was fully clothed. These tales of Halloween love are definitely coincidence, right?

Frankly, Slutty Halloween is fun and harmless.  This year, I’m dressing up as Amelia Earhart.  My choice to dress up as an overly-clothed, independent woman is not meant to be a feminist statement.  At all. I just wanted to buy some aviator goggles and a cap.  When a male friend asked if I was going to be Amelia EarWHORE, I laughed. Because it’s funny.  And if Amelia does ends up wearing a push-up bra and shorts instead of pants: sue me.

Middle School 101

Fact: Middle schoolers have a bad reputation.  Arguably deserved. 

No one thinks too highly of these awkward in-between years. Kids have mostly shed their cute factor, but have yet to replace it with any other factor. They are loud and run in packs--leaning on the safety of blending in when individuality seems terrifying. There’s a common perception of middle school kid as volcano, a sweaty Vesuvius waiting to explode with the slightest provocation.   Middle schoolers are known for hormones, animal noises, bad smells.  Hence the reputation.  

When I tell anyone I teach middle school, the response is a clenched grin and one of these stock diplomatic phrases:

“Wow, that’s a rough age.”  (read: that sucks)

“God bless you!” (read: I know neither of us is religious, but I can’t think of anything better to say)

“I hated middle school.” (read: I had braces twice and boyfriends never)

“That’s a lot of hormones in one building.” (read: middle schoolers smell and get their periods. Don’t you want a desk job?)

Thanks for the support, friends.  Sometimes I try to defend the age group, but mostly I just change the subject.

“So, what do you do?”

Middle school is an undeniably awkward stage of life. The bad reputation is mostly deserved, but I’ve developed a soft spot for hormonal 7^th graders.  It’s not Devonte’s fault that his best friend is literally twice his size with twice as many girlfriends.  Nor is it Kevin’s fault that his mom calls his teachers every day to check up on his homework completion (maybe if he did his homework, she’d stop, but that’s beside the point). It is Alisha’s fault that she asked me for a “pad for her period” in front of half the class. Nice alliteration, Alisha, here's a pass to go to the office.

Middle schoolers are starting to come into their own, slowly developing budding senses of self. This is terrifyiningly exciting.  The road is obstacle-ridden like Downtown Brooklyn, and they need all the help they can get  navigating it.  As a middle school teacher, you get to help out 75 kids during their bleakest hour. All in a day's work.

Teaching middle school involves endurance.  You must endure millions of unwarranted eye rolls and buckets of sass worse than anything you remember dishing out. You must endure a classroom that smells like the amalgamated body odor of 25 pre-teens.  You must endure note-passing, teeth sucking, classroom flirting, constant lip-gloss application.  But as a middle school teacher, you are rewarded for your endurance.  You are rewarded by the student who uses every single vocabulary word you've taught her on her unit test--each accompanied by a smiley face.  By the thank you notes and cartoons dropped on your desk. By the priceless running document of quotes on your desktop.  The bad reputation middle schoolers have garnered is maybe deserved, but it masks a lot of the cute stuff about the age group.  The skeptics probably haven't spent a day in a middle school since they were learning the periodic table.  I'm not sure I blame them, but still.

A sense of humor and yoga help me keep calm and carry on. Mostly, though, I remind myself of one fact:  It is so much better to teach middle schoolers than it is to be a middle schooler.  So. Much. Better.   On particularly trying days (today, for example), this becomes a wise mantra.  Someday, each of my students will have a similar sense of perspective. For now, I repeat it in my head during choice interactions--moments of extreme endurance--and this job actually becomes pretty fun.

Traveling Pants

Women’s college instilled in me persistent ideas about sisterhood—a concept that’s related to but distinct from feminism.  Along with traveling pants, there are hallmarks of sisterhood; there are unwritten rules.  In the iteration I know best, sisterhood involves fierce loyalty, red wine and late-night voyages to either the frozen yogurt shop or a more grown-up shop. Both in one night for the ambitious.  As a graduate of a place where the water was metallic with the taste of sisterhood, I carry with me an outline of how I should treat other women and how they should treat me in return.  Then, how all this corresponds to the way we date. The outline can be titled, crassly, “Chicks Before Dicks,” but the sub-points are infinite and nuanced.

As a mostly single woman, I attempt to navigate hetero-dating terrain while staying true to the sisterhood.  This can be tricky.   At school, whenever I started to date someone, I felt a pang of guilt for spending my Friday nights with a boy rather than with the sisterhood.  Intellectually, I knew this was crazy, but it always felt like I’d broken a rule, betrayed my sisters for a co-ed who may or may not turn out to be important. No matter who I chose—the sisterhood or a boy—guilt was unavoidable.   It was a near-impossible balancing act: admitting to yourself that you did, indeed, want to date, but that you also wanted to be a genuine part of the sisterhood. Not the flakey sister who came and went with the unpredictable tides of relationships.  When a friend left the flock for a boy, we’d be excited, but there were undertones of less enthusiastic emotions from the sisters left behind.   The seedy underbelly of sisterhood. 

This weekend, I messed with the rules of sisterhood by putting a dating desire over the feelings of another woman.   This isn’t really my style.  There’s not much space in sisterhood for that type of girl, but suddenly I was strutting in her ill-fitting shoes.  I felt guilty about the minor betrayal, but mostly I started to think about contemporary sisterhood more broadly.   How should sisterhood play out as we date and try to keep balance?

In the past, I have strained relationships by being too distant.  When I isolated sisterhood at the peak of the priority mountain, I realize looking back that I wasn’t much of a girlfriend.   On the flipside, I have made irresponsible, embarrassing dating decisions—blatantly going against the advice of my girlfriends and knocking over others on my way.  Being a member in good-standing is no easy feat.  You practice and learn from your mistakes, but there are always more to be made. Hurt feelings, confused boys, offended girls.  I have been on both sides.  Sisterhood is important, but so too is functional dating in your twenties. Isolating one too dramatically can lead to an imbalance from which it might be hard to recover.  Maybe the answer is to wear your traveling pants on a date and your sexiest underwear out with your girlfriends. Subtle reminders to stay conscious while pursuing what feels right.

Bouncy

A happy life is the product of many components.  For those people of whom you are jealous, the components fit together like a mildewed jigsaw puzzle found at a Seventies beach house.  But who really spends time re-piecing together cut-up cardboard?  Some of these components you create for yourself and others are dictated by the higher-ups: your parents, the media, your college, your friends.  Most of the happiness components are as obvious as they are elusive—the hardest and most essential to-do list we’ve got.

You should have a job that is fulfilling, meaningful and lucrative enough. You should have a diverse group of friends, a handsome significant other and a functional family to fulfill you socially, sexually, romantically. You should have hobbies and interests—well-developed and unique.  Intellectually, we mostly know what it takes to feel happy, but the laundry list rarely lines up like you dream it might. When you have a great job, you are hopelessly single, and when you have a great boyfriend, you’re more than likely unemployed.  Unfortunately, for the mortals among us, it sometimes seems this is how happiness works.

Like many 24-year-old upper-middle-class white girls, I’ve bought into the idea that exercise is a small but crucial happiness factor.  Exercise has many obvious benefits that can be summed up under “hard-bodied.”  But magazines are constantly spewing statistics about how exercise is more than physical. In addition to toning your bod, exercise makes you happy and smart and beautiful, or so says Cosmpolitan (a dubious source of information as there can’t possibly be 101 new sex tricks every month).  Nonetheless, I’ve read this stuff enough that I’m bought in.  In college, I had myself convinced that I was happier and more productive when I was getting regular exercise.  This was a handy conclusion to bring forth when I’d rather be at yoga than working on my thesis (read: always).  

My commitment to exercise has waned over the years. I’ve been into kickboxing and yoga; I’ve convinced myself walking is equivalent to running; I’ve also been into a strict beer and Swedish fish regime.  If good teaching hinges on consistency, so too does a rocking bod. This is a mindset I've yet to master.

Last summer, I was fed up with exercise and essentially stopped doing it. The gym had become mind-numbingly boring, and even the fleeting thought of going was excruciating.  A couple motionless months passed, and I started thinking about happiness factors—reevaluating my placement of exercise in this amorphous blob of contentment.  When you’ve made a decision to stop doing something, it’s easy to convince yourself that it’s stupid, anyway.  But after a while I was feeling a little funky, and I wondered if my swearing off of a good thing was partially to blame.

What I realized is that if I’m to believe Cosmo’s credo that exercise makes you happy, I should pursue it in ways that are enjoyable.  This realization brings me to my new favorite form of exercise and the point of all this: Urban Rebounding.  

Urban Rebounding is a chic name for trampoline-ing.  It’s offered at your local YMCA, and I highly recommend it.  It involves bouncing on a mini-trampoline that is slightly updated, but mostly similar, to the one you had in your basement growing up. While bouncing along to remixed pop music, you attempt a series of complex punches, kicks and other assorted rebounding moves. I’m not sure exactly what makes it so urban, except that I'm doing it in Brooklyn.  Point is: it’s really fun, I spend most of the hour laughing with my new rebounding gang, and still end up sweaty and sore the next day.  

So there you have it.  The link between exercise and happiness is pretty legit, but if exercising itself makes you want to kick a puppy, the link gets tenuous.  The happiness components are only viable if they actually make you happy.  That should be obvious, but it's not. 

The solution, then, is apparent: Urban Rebounding. The cure for what ails us.  

Profiling

During two college summers, I spurned the boring suggestion of an internship and worked instead at a summer camp on Orcas Island. Rather than building up important professional skills I could later leverage toward a JOB, I opted to flirt with outdoorsy boys and make friendship bracelets. My foresight was and remains impeccable.

This was not the type of East Coast camp where kids stay the whole summer and get tutored for their Bat Mitzvahs in between digital photography class and soccer games. It was a YMCA camp where the favorite activities were the “Dork Dance” and “Get Wet, Get Dirty.” The “Dork Dance” is self-explanatory and uncomfortably similar to my middle school experience.  Surprisingly, the latter activity was entirely PG and involved running into the Puget Sound, rolling around in the dirt and gallivanting around camp screaming in totally appropriate ecstasy (or if you are me, screaming because you’re freezing and miserable).  Everyone (but me) loved it.

This was the type of camp where kids stayed for a week and then left.  By the end of each summer, I’d had something like eight different cabins of ten adolescent girls.  For the first couple of cabins, I felt a close sense of connection to each child.  I knew their interests, their quirks, their habits.  By the end of the summer, though, my memory could manage no such distinction. The kids started to blend into types: homesick girl, skanky girl, shy girl, brown-nosing girl, sneaky girl.  And so on.  There was one of each in every cabin—the flavor of the week—and the group dynamic never changed too dramatically once I got the hang of it.  This profiling of children during their coming-of-age may be insensitive, but I wasn’t a worse counselor for it.  I remembered their names during the week and then forget them as soon as they boarded the bus, sobbing because camp was over.  My memory can only hold so much information; after all, there were outdoorsy boys to think about.    

My third year into it, I find teaching follows a similar pattern.  I love my students, and I love my students from last year and the year before. But with 75 personalities per year, things inevitably start to blend like a watercolor painting. Lines become a little blurry.  As I get to know more and more students, their behaviors, habits and quirks have mostly (mostly) ceased to amaze me. Last night, my roommate told me that one of her students had earned a demerit for doing chest compressions on his backpack. Weird, yes, but simply one kid oddity among so many. Not so original, buddy. There are reoccurring classroom characters, and I can’t help but profile some of the major players:  

The Hot Mess: The Hot Mess is in a perpetual state of disarray for no apparent reason. His shirt is untucked, his shoes are untied and his tie is only halfway around his neck. When leaving the bathroom, he is still buckling his belt.  Despite the air-conditioned classroom, The Hot Mess is always sweating profusely, forcing teachers to discuss who’s best fit for the deodorant conversation.  When asked to pack up his things, half of them wind up on the ground and the sweat just keeps pouring out. The Hot Mess is usually endearing, but also disruptive as his body is never quite still. 

The Lip Glosser:  Or as Tiny Fey coined her:  the Mean Girl.  The Lip Glosser is usually sharp and inquisitive, but is choosy about where to focus the antennae of her brain power.  It may be in class or it may be in the creation of subtly exclusive social groups. The Lip Glosser can be found surreptitiously glossing her lips at the end of class (because it’s worth the consequence) or hanging out with popular boys after school.  The Lip Glosser is precocious, and you can’t help but worry about her.  Although you recognize that you would have been her wannabe prey in middle school, you still kind of love her because she brings up feminism in class.

The Ladies Man: The Ladies Man is usually a good-looking short kid.  While he may be able to leverage his killer looks post-growth spurt, the Ladies Man is incorrect in his assumption that he can do so at barely five feet.  Every single thing he does throughout the day is motivated by a desire for female attention. Behaviors include nods and raised eyebrows in class, slightly-off compliments and a signature strut that needs more practice. At times, the Ladies Man attempts flirtation  on his female teachers; a harsh look reminds the Ladies Man that this is totally inappropriate.  

The Helper:  The helper is motivated by an intense, never-ending desire to be of assistance.  Though this will probably die off by high school, it’s best taken advantage of while it lasts.  For The Helper, there is no greater pleasure than alphabetizing hundreds of papers or running to the front office to get more tissues for his sniffling classmates. The mundane tasks that annoy normal people give The Helper a wonderful sense of accomplishment. The Helper’s hand shoots up when he hears the phrase, “I need a volunteer…”  With no knowledge of the task at hand, the Helper wants to be that volunteer. So. Freaking. Badly. 

Dealing with Post

There’s a glass-half-empty fact that most relationships end.  Unless he’s the one—and with sky-high divorce rates, there may well be a two or three—your relationship will expire.  Of course, you put this reality out of your mind during the genesis of any relationship. The crash-and-burn nature of dating is hardly start-up fodder unless you aim to be the cynic whose relationships collapse before they accelerate. So relationships end, and many brunches are spent with girlfriends analyzing the minutiae of the post-relationship. In some instances, there was a significant pre-relationship preceding the real deal. The last in the trilogy—the post-relationship—is also relevant to the series.   

In particular, fountains of ink are spilled on the topic of remaining friends with your ex.  Should we or should we not?  Rather than accepting finality, we contemplate mutation—from lover to pal, Saturday dinner to occasional coffee date.  Why not, right?   We draw firm conclusions from our experiences, then debate them with friends when, of course, the conclusions are individual, pulled from the wreckage of our own growing collections of post-relationships.  A weighty collection it becomes—heavier than stickers, stamps or Beanie Babies—perhaps better kept in mint condition than taken out to play.    

I initiated the end of my college relationship.  I was the plug-puller and, with the wisdom of a few more busted fuses, the smooth pull I planned was more akin to a harsh tug. Driven by the notion that our post-relationship would be beautifully marked by friendship, I broke up with him rather brutally and then insisted on regular communication.  I squeezed lemon juice into fresh wounds—his and mine—and made sharp pain more shooting.  He eventually told me to stop calling, the ironic result being that our post-relationship was instead marked by a sad year of almost no communication.  Probably smart, but it was inconceivable at the time that I could no longer speak to someone I’d loved—not when things were good and not when things were bad.  But, when you are the plug-puller, the rules of the post-relationship are not yours to make.  I could yap all I wanted with my friends about what to do, but he’d made up his mind. 

After that mess, I drew the firm conclusion that being friends with your ex is unnecessary and impossible.  I was quick to share my cliché thesis with friends as if it were hard fact. Like any English major worth her weight in gold, I felt my supporting details were more powerful than any of theirs.  Do not confuse your post-relationship for friendship; you’ll wind up rotting in purgatory.   

A guy I dated in Boston stayed with me in New York about a month ago.  Based on my slippery conclusion about post-relationship friendship, I viewed this as potentially disastrous. In stark contrast, the weekend was pleasantly platonic. Maybe because there was less emotion attached to this one, but the post-relationship hang-out went off without a hitch.  I’ve enjoyed dinners and baseball games with ex-whatevers—something I’d heretofore thought impossible—working under the assumption that there was some reason other than animal instinct we were kissing in the first place.  And so I’ve been made to rework prior notions.   

I removed a boy’s number from my phone earlier this year because my post-relationship antics were unhealthy and embarrassing.  I’m told this digital erasure is a helpful thing people do, and so I followed suit. With this particular post-relationship, the aforementioned “friend date” was out of the question; my temper had flared, and that ain’t pretty.  The best thing to do was tie my wrists behind my back and find someone else to kiss until he became more memory than flesh.          

I have mixed relationship with post-relationship, a bitter cocktail that results in a brutal hangover.  Once a relationship is over, it should really be over, but we’re addicted to recycling, reusing the familiar and then reusing it once more. Like my hometown, maybe it's time to consider composting.

Finality is hard to accept. There are myriad ways to handle the post-relationship, none of which is universally correct. No one rule is unanimously applicable.  Still, the idea that there may be some magic formula is comforting when thinking how to pull yourself up from a crash.  If it helps in the aftermath to trade stories and theories at brunches nationwide, bring on the bloody maries. 

Shana Tova, Suckas

Not because I'm particularly devout, but I prefer the Jewish New Year to the normal one. January is dreary and uninspiring--an illogical time for fresh beginnings.  I resent the pressure to wear sparkles on New Year's Eve and I resent Jesus' inopportune birthday that I don't even get to celebrate. Cold weather literally makes my brain malfunction. For these totally valid reasons, I reject the Christian calendar's suggestion of January newness and instead look to my bearded brethren when thinking about life changes. 

Contrary to expectation, the weather and general lack of motivation in January inspire me to vigorously partake in all the vices I'm supposed to be swearing off. If I resolve to go the gym with more frequency, I'm really more inclined to start eating carbohydrates with more frequency.  If I resolve to drink modestly, the cold forces me to imbibe with abandon.  Every New Year's Resolution I've made has failed by the tenth at the latest, so I'm done trying.  I could look inward and blame this on my lack of grit. Instead, I will blame the month of January.  For all the talk of freshness, the month feels rather stale.  It's high time more people converted to Judaism. We could use them on our team, anyway.  

The Jews know what's up: we celebrate the new year at the most logical time.  As someone whose life cycles with the school year, September is a fitting month for fresh starts.  In January, we're depressed that it's still winter and will be for several more months.  In September, we're excited about the change of weather--the onset of fall in all its orange tones and crispness.  My classroom is sparkling with inspirational posters, and I've got 75 new children, none of whom hate me yet.  Brooklyn women are breaking out their circular scarves and moccasins.  The subway is no longer a malodorous steam bath.  I've got a brand-new, year-long metrocard to take me to all that cultural shit I've been meaning to do for a year. I'm in the mood for yoga, kale and new novels. 

Along with bagels, this is why I like Judaism.  The normal New Year is utter nonsense. The Jewish New Year is brilliant.  It's high time Jews and Goys alike accepted the fact that September is the appropriate month for fresh beginnings. January is a time for cutting your losses and acting like a blob.  Accept it. 

Like a Chicken to the Slaughter

September is the start of school, the start of fall and also the start of chicken-slaughtering season in South Williamsburg—the unlikely home to my charter school and to a very traditional sect of Chasidic Jews.  There’s nothing a vegetarian likes more than getting off the bus at 6:30 am and narrowly avoiding stepping on a chicken bone in patent leather flats. Foul smell emanating from chicken detritus, bones still sparkling with blood and flesh. I am not happy; starving mere minutes ago, no longer do I want my instant oatmeal. Though I am, in fact, also celebrating the Jewish New Year this month, my fresh beginnings involve no ritualistic slaughter. To each his own, I suppose, but I do not cherish this part of September.     

Caveat: I’m a Jew so I’m allowed to critique Judaism in all its iterations. Right? Well, maybe. This questionable logic is similar to—but also totally different from—how we “took back” Bitch at women’s college. And how we “took back” a few other words not fit to print. Regardless, here goes.

When I got off the train before my interview in late spring of 2010, I was unprepared for Chasidim. Really, nothing except Jerusalem or a time warp is adequate preparation.  As if it were a time machine, the J train transported me from my hotel in midtown to pre-war Poland just by crossing the East River.  Two songs played on my pump-up playlist, and there I was: smack dab in the middle of Eastern Europe only with a few more fried chicken establishments to spruce up the place.  

Mostly, this diversity is what makes New York City great.  The fact that Chasidic Jews, Dominican immigrants, hipsters and Russian immigrants all thrive in Brooklyn is remarkable. Save the infamous bike lane debacle, relations in Williamsburg seem smooth enough, but there’s still something weird and fraught lurking beneath the day-to-day.

Stepping off the train onto Bedford Ave, I felt like a prostitute in my modest interview outfit.  Very little was bared, and yet: men looked at their feet; no one looked me in the eye.  Crossing the street, I almost got mauled by a mini-van driving about twice the speed limit.  When I thought I was safe on the other side, a similar incident occurred, only this time my almost-killer was a seven-year-old careening around the corner on a scooter. A hallmark of the culture appears to be a general disregard for basic traffic rules.  Word to the wise: Do not jaywalk in the Burg, lest you encounter a Chasid on wheels. 

Finally, after a year, I'm no longer strucky daily by the odd reality that I teach Black and Hispanic kids in the middle of Chasidville. Relations between the community and my school are mostly non-existent.  My students have a neutral to negative perception of the Jews, and I suspect the feeling is reciprocal.  When they find out I’m Jewish, they just get confused.  We are accustomed to the odd blending, and it works out 99% of the time.  I even occasionally visit Flaum’s Appetizers for their Kosher salad bar (which, of course, turns into a pickle bar on Fridays).  The thing that continues to nag—besides the annual chicken slaughter—is the women. 

Historically, feminism is criticized for being an exclusive movement—a luxury of the white upper middle class.  Women like Bell Hooks and Gloria Anzaldua should be praised for extending the movement into diverse communities and into the Third World, but there are still some groups that seemingly remain untouched.

Though Google research informs me there are definitely feminist changes occurring within American Chasidim, I find no compelling evidence in Williamsburg.  It’s hard for me to believe that a woman my age with three kids and a wig has access to the same options that I do.  It’s hard for me to buy that she is liberated.  Hard to resist labeling oppression when I see it. Women within the community argue that this is what they want. That even with more opportunities, Chasidic women would still choose homemaker and mother over doctor and lawyer. This role is biblically prescribed, and that trumps all.  This is all well and good, but I’m not totally sold.  As feminist strides are made worldwide, I worry that this pocket is left in the dust because of lack of information, choice and opportunity.  Is it adequate to say this is what they want—because the bible said so?  Maybe I'm being narrow-minded for calling them the same, but the concern persists.  I’m excited if Chasidic feminism is truly burgeoning, but I’m not convinced this is the case. 

Chicken slaughter has little to do with feminism, but these aspects of the Chasidic community outside my classroom window are the two that still don’t sit well with me. 

Ode to Bagels

Today the sun rose with a bagel. Better: a surprise bagel. Save a spilled latte or a death in the family, there’s no way a day can go badly when it begins with a bosom of carbohydrates smothered in fluffy cream cheese.  My love of bagels is borderline religious.  Savoring a bagel puts me in a trance-like state that’s about the closest I get to spiritual.  I like bagels almost as much as I like my family, and I like my family very much.

Although I grew up on the W(B)est Coast, my parents are both the offspring of East Coast Jews.  Where bagels are concerned, they know what’s what. They deign to consume a chocolate-chip bagel or an “everything” bagel. New-age. Made-up. Stick to poppy and sesame. Cinnamon-raisin if you’re feeling sassy.  From a young age, I was acutely aware of Portland’s bagel dearth.  Good bagels are one of the few things the city truly lacks.  Every time we went to New York, we brought home dozens of H&H bagels to improve our quality of life for a few blissful days back in the wasteland. 

This is not to say we did not purchase and consume bagels in Portland. Of course we still ate bagels; we’re Jews. My family’s expression of Judaism is largely culinary, so we made the best of what we had—schmearing the mediocre on Sunday mornings.  For Jewish holidays, we debated where to purchase the best of the worst.  And this is the plight of the West Coast Jew. Haven’t we endured enough? 

Years ago, a family friend was charged with bringing bagels to a brunch held at our house.  Upon biting into his poppy seed bagel, my always-diplomatic father made a disgusted face and asked my mother:

“Where did this puffball excuse for a bagel come from?”

Embarrassed, the true offender piped up, “Um, actually, it was me. I brought those from Marcee Bakery. Sorry.”

Everyone turned red. But, really, Marcee Bakery? Only the worst bagels in town.

It would be an exaggeration to say I moved to New York City for bagels. That’s crazy. But, the prospect of living in the same city as the world’s best bagels made me salivate.  It would also be an exaggeration to say I chose my current apartment because it’s across the street from a bagel store.  But it is. And I like it.  Have I considered installing some sort of pulley system from the bagel store directly to my bedroom for those Sunday mornings when I’m too hungover to make the trek? Absolutely, but the obstacles are insurmountable. For now.

Something I didn’t realize about bagels until recently is that they’re really bad for you. Way more calories than normal bread. Which makes sense: everyone knows the better a food tastes, the worse it is for you. This tidbit is distressing, but it’s had no significant effect on my bagel-eating lifestyle. I have very little self-control when it comes to bagels. Okay, most things.  Only in the city, I’ve witnessed people “scoop” their bagels. They remove the encased carbs from their skin for a low-calorie option. To this behavior I say: WTF? The mutilation is revolting, offensive.  The intentional destruction of a precious bagel for weight loss purposes has no place in my life. The pure joy I get from eating a bagel with good people on a Sunday morning is worth millions of calories.  Kate Moss once said, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” Which of course makes me wonder if Kate has ever had a bagel.