I am a dancer

Not a good one.

Not a creative one.

But movement makes me happy, and music, and expression.

I'm not good at dance -yet- but dance is good at me.

Creative Fail

I think I've lost my creative ability.

My whole life I've loved crafting and sewing and creating. And what with the sewing and costume designing I did during high school, it was somewhat expected that I would go into fashion. Even though I chose to go to university rather than FIDM, I never intended to abandon the dream.

But the ugly truth is I just don't think I have it. I don't have what it takes. Oh, the desire is there. I have always wanted to create. I just have never been all that successful. There is an endless supply of books and bobbins and ribbon and fabric and tools in my room. But that's where it stops. I have half-solid ideas that never come to fruition. A few sketches I can't seem to do anything with. And every time I sit down and try to produce, it ends in frustration.

The list of skills I would like to have is endless. Sketching, painting, photography. Yet somehow I do not have what it takes to acquire those skills. That's probably my biggest fault. I am unable to reach out and try for what I want. It's not even a matter of trying and failing. I don't know how to start trying.

I have tried to ignore it, but the fact is that it's been years since I made anything, really. I think a lot about working on one of my many forgotten projects, but I can't remember the last time I actually did work on one. Tonight I finally forced myself (and really, I shouldn't have to force myself at all) to pull something out. I got all set up, spread the materials around me, tried to be excited, and found myself incredibly depressed instead and completely unable to work.

The worst feeling in the world is realizing you are not an artist, when for your whole life you banked on being one. I don't even know that I get any joy from designing anymore, since whenever I try I am so disheartened by the process.

I am not patient and never have been. I don't like things that don't come naturally to me (with the one exception of dance, and even that has its moments). I have not found what brings me peace and pleasure, and that's the real tragedy.

It really makes me panic sometimes, that I don't know what I like to do. Doesn't everyone know what they like to do? Ostensibly, I like to design and sew and knit and crochet, but in actuality, I can't convince myself to actually do it to save my life.

Identity crisis, much?

She without arm, he without leg

This never fails to amaze me. Forget the sheer brilliance of two severely handicapped people dancing-obviously that's amazing. But the level of skill in their performance would be incredible even if they weren't missing crucial dancing body parts. Then add in their handicaps and the amount of compensating they have to do. They have strength and skill beyond most normal dancers. And the raw emotion is heart wrenching. I have yet to see another performance that is so open, so intensely intimate, and so powerful.

In Which I Go Back to College

Ok, not really.

It's 8:40 AM on a Sunday, and I am sitting in a Starbucks somewhere in San Diego. I came into San Diego for Eyal's birthday weekend extravaganza, the first time I have been back in almost 4 months. I have been seeing friends I hadn't seen in even longer. I hadn't realized how much I was missing being with people my own age. Living at home is great. I love my family and I don't mind being there. But for the first time in four years I'm not surrounded by friends. I barely see anyone my own age with a very few exceptions. I don't make time to see anyone much either.

So coming back here has been a very mixed bag (only I would get overly emotional and introspective on a weekend trip to SD. Bugger). I am thrilled beyond reason to be here. I literally got into town on Friday-right before Shabbat-walked into the La Jolla Ralphs, and felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I was suddenly ten times happier. Then I tried to drive out of the Ralphs parking lot and remembered why I HATE IT SO MUCH. But I digress.

I love being here. I love seeing all my friends, and getting up to old shenanigans that I have been sorely missing. I would love being here even if I had no friends here-I just love this city. Within 30 seconds of getting off the freeway I knew I needed to move back here, and soon. But it has also made me sad. I'm not in college anymore, and there's no way of reclaiming that time. It was four precious years and already I feel like an old lady, telling everyone, "in my day...!" Walking through I-house, I felt none of the old anxiety it used to bring me, and realized that I wasted a good amount of my college time being depressed, anxious, or unhappy. I couldn't have changed it-we feel the way we do, when we do, and there's no escaping that. But I wish I could have appreciated where I was more. Hindsight is 20-20.

Without sounding too preachy, the one thing I want to say to my friends who are still in college is that the best part of college, the part that you'll miss the most, is living in an environment where you are constantly surrounded by your friends. Never again will you have so many friends living so near you, and so available to hang out, study together, party together, be there in a pinch, take you to the hospital, and pull all nighters. After college, people go their separate ways. You may still have a group that sticks together but it will be much smaller. And it's easier for life to separate you once you've left the nest of school.

So take the advice of this old lady (haha) and understand why exactly it is that they say these years are the best ones. It's all about friends.

Latkes

My family makes latkes every year, and sometimes they're good and sometimes they're not. They're never great. But I have finally stumbled across a recipe that works.

What made it great, compared to what we've tried before?

• Grate the potatoes raw. None of this cooking the potatoes first. Blech.
• More onion than we used to use. At least it seemed that way to me.
• SAUTE THE ONIONS FIRST!
  
• Saute some minced garlic in with the onions: Mmmmm!!!
• Don't try to make patties out of the latke mix: Drop clumps/balls of the mix into the oil, then press them flat with a spatula (maybe that's common knowledge and I'm just dumb, but I'm still excited by the discovery, so hush.)
• Use olive oil, not vegetable oil. Everyone thought I was crazy for this one, but a) it worked and b) isn't the miracle about olive oil in the first place!?
  

I don't know what else to say: guess the Latke Fairy was with me tonight, because those were some bitchin' latkes. Thank you Aviva Markowitz and father!

And for your enjoyment: The video/song that is sweeping the internet and being played on repeat all night in my house.....



Happy 4th night!

Happy

Hanuka.
Hanukah
Hanukkah.
Hanukka.
Hannukka.
Hannukkah.
Hannuka.
Hannukah.
Chanukkah.
Chanukka.
Channukkah.
Channukka.
Chanukah.
Chanuka.
Channuka.
Chanukah.
Channukah.


Is is just me, or do the letters start looking like Russian after a while?

In Memorian: Harold L. Katz

My Grandpa, Harold L. Katz, passed away a week ago today. He was my partner in crime in terms of politics and activism. You can find one of his trademark, long comments on one of my posts here.
He died at his desk, as he always said he would. His staff thought he was asleep. He suffered no pain.
I can not begin to describe what Grandpa meant to me, what a remarkable man he was. He always wore a suit, because he believed that a gentleman must always look his best. And he was a gentleman. At his memorial yesterday, I learned just how many people loved him. Every person he met, he made feel like they were the most special person on the planet. He had that gift. He loved everyone. His smile lit up a room.
His honesty and integrity were his most valued traits. Everyone who spoke yesterday mentioned it.
The room was filled to capacity at 200 people, and as person after person got up to share their memories of my Grandpa, I realized what an amazing man Grandpa truly was.

The best I can do here is to share the speech that I gave yesterday.

I love you, Grandpa. I will miss sending you my blog posts, and reading your comments on them.

Grandpa said not to bother having a memorial for him because he didn't think anyone would show up.

I've been reading some old newspaper articles about Grandpa these past few days. They're from over 40 years ago, but the man they describe is definitely my Grandpa. One says he was “always perfectly groomed and fashionably dressed, and with a style that is witty and articulate”. It also says he had a “natural proclivity to get involved in things, to make pastimes and pleasures out of projects....that many consider chores, or at best, necessary obligations.”. That right there pretty much defines him. Not only was he involved, he loved being involved. It was his hobby and his passion. The list of committees, organizations, and boards that my Grandpa was a part of goes on for half a page. And in many of those cases he was founder, Director, or Chairman. In his own words, “Some people play golf and some play tennis. I tried golf and got tired of rolling the little ball over 18 holes because I never seemed to be able to hit it into the air.” That was my Grandpa. He always wanted to hit the ball into the air. The sidelines, the good-enough, the average, was not what he was made for. He was voted the Century City Man of the Year in 1972, the same year he was president of the Century City Chamber of Commerce, which he helped found. And in 2009 he was awarded the honorary title of Champion of that same Chamber of Commerce, in thanks for all that he had done for it.

This is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of things I discovered about the man who was my grandpa. In some ways I feel obligated to share everything I learned about him, to honor him by reciting his entire life story.

Besides the fact that we'd be here until tomorrow, I decided that I wanted to share with all of you, the man as I knew him. Not Harold L. Katz, CPA, nor Harold Katz, the Man from Century City, but just simply, Grandpa. (So here goes).

He wasn't the type of grandfather who crawled around on the floor with us kids. But his love for my brothers, cousins, and I was obvious nonetheless. He showed his love in his own way and it was a beautiful and precious thing. He and Jan made the drive out to Thousand Oaks for every single talent show, play, or piano recital my brothers and I were in. No matter how casual the event, no matter if we were only on stage for 30 seconds, they were always there. And not only were they there, but they were endlessly enthusiastic. Grandpa thought that his grandchildren were the best at everything. The smartest person, the most talented musician was “almost” as good as his grandkids. Following every performance, he would treat us to our own rave review, praising our talent, our presence, our delivery and expression. Grandpa was our number one fan, even when our performance may not have entirely deserved it.

Grandpa used to say how when I was born I was the only person who could get him to leave his desk. I was the first grandchild and he would come over to my parents' little apartment, hold me on a pillow on his lap, and just stare at me for hours. Every year when he called me on my birthday, or came out for a birthday dinner, he would tell me that story, beaming the whole time. He also liked to tell the story of how when I was born he realized that all the numbers of my birth added up to eight. I was born on the third day of the 5^th month (5 and 3 is 8). The year was 1988. The time of my birth added up to eight, as did my weight. Grandpa thought that was the coolest thing and was very proud at having been the one to notice it.

The other day I realized that I could return the favor. I found a number pattern of my own. Together, my Grandpa and I were elevens. He was born in '33, I in '88. We were 55 years apart. He died on the 22^nd of the 11^th month, when he was 77 and I was 22. All multiples of eleven. I think he would have gotten a kick out of that.

At my Bat Mitzvah, my high school graduation, and my college graduation, Grandpa gave me the same piece of advice. He said that whatever I chose to do with my life, I should choose something that made me happy. He said it was of the utmost importance that I wake up every morning excited to get out of bed. He did. He understood the importance of living every moment to its fullest.

At my college graduation this past June, Jan told me that Grandpa was so proud of me, his suspenders were in danger of popping, and it certainly appeared to be so. He was beaming so hard the whole day that it made you smile just to see it. The memory of that day is one I'm holding tight to. On that day I felt his love and pride for me so strongly it was almost tangible. I'm so glad he was able to be there.

The way Grandpa lived his life was inspirational. Here was a man in his 70s, going out dancing every Saturday night until the small hours of the morning. When the younger people had given up and gone to bed, Grandpa and Jan would still be out there, cutting up the dance floor. This wasn't an old man. His years were an unimportant detail. He worked, sometimes until 10 o'clock at night. He wrote constantly; letters to every editor under the sun, articles and editorials, and responses to articles he read. My inbox is going to be a whole lot emptier now, and I know that's also true for many of you in this room. My Grandpa liked to have fun, and have fun he did. He recently told me that he had finally figured out what CPA stood for: Certified Party Animal.

In the past year Grandpa and I started to build a very special relationship. I was getting politically involved on campus and suddenly Grandpa and I had endless things to talk about. We'd send emails back and forth, exchanging articles, news, and ideas. I started a blog to record the events on my campus, and although I only wrote two posts, Grandpa would tell anyone who would listen about his granddaughter, the writer. In the past month or so I started writing again, much to his delight. We attended an ACT! For America event together and later he asked for the notes I had taken. He said he was going to write an article from my notes and it would be signed “by Natalie and Harold Katz”. He wrote to me that “the thought of co writing a piece is beyond words. I'm overwhelmed.” He didn't get to write that piece.

I also started joining Jan and Grandpa occasionally at their Monday night haunt-a restaurant called Prego. This was really the first time I had spent quality one on one time with my Grandpa. He introduced me to all of his friends, and even to people I'm not sure he knew! He and I would talk the night away, and he would stay by my side until he saw me safely into my car at the end of the night.

I had always loved my Grandpa, but now we were buddies, partners in crime. The timing was perfect. I was done with college, living at home, and had more time to spend with him. We emailed each other constantly, consulted each other on political issues, and I was joining him and Jan at Prego.

Barely a month ago he emailed me to ask if I was joining them that night. At the end of his email, he wrote, “I have always loved you and I didn't think that love could ever be more than it was originally but as we now spend time together the love is stronger and just so wonderful....I am so grateful that I lived long enough to become part of your adult life.”

I'm also grateful beyond words that I had this time with him, but it ended far, far too soon. We were only getting started.

The last time I was with him at Prego he leaned over to me and said, “If I died tomorrow, I would want you to know one thing. Your Grandfather has had a lot of fun.” Earlier in the day, he told me, he had felt too tired to go out, more like a 77 year old than the 47 year old he knew he was. But he dragged himself out, and now, sitting at the table with me, he was back to feeling like himself. The lesson, he told me, was to make sure to get as much joy out of each day as it is possible to attain. That was the rule that he lived by.

I'd like to leave you all with this message, on behalf of my Grandpa. If he were here, he would tell you all to make the most out of every moment, to always choose joy, and to always have fun. He was a living, breathing, bigger-than-life example of his own philosophy right up until the minute he died. May we all have the energy, the drive, and the happiness that he did.

So much awesome

Ten More Bad Ideas

1) Pet amusement parks
2) Make up for dogs
3) Incinerator trash can-for indoor and outdoor use. Nothing to throw away, just ashes
4) Toothbrush/razor combo (one at each end)
5) Books with glowing pages-eliminates need for lamp or booklight
6) Overnight travel kits-toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, soap, shampoo, razor, one pair underwear, one t shirt, comb, tissue, deodorant.
7) Street-side coffee dispensers- like newspaper boxes, only with coffee.
8) Using soup cans as book ends
9) Self-dusting bookshelves (jets shoot out puffs of air occasionally to dislodge dust settled on books
10) Crocheted pants

How to Have Good Ideas:

Have many, many bad ones.

So here goes. Ten bad ideas, just to practice having them.

1) windshield wipers for glasses

2) cell phone/mace combination tool

3) self-heating thermoses

4) Electric socks (like electric blankets, only socks....yeah)

5) Temperature activated music system (plays certain music when it gets too cold or hot....)

6) Disposable scarves

7) Can you tell that I'm cold right now?

7a) Computer speakers that lower their volume when you "shhhh" at them.

8) Backpack carrying service for school (elementary through college)

9) Pet-renting service. Month-long leases.

10) Adjustable-height step stools

This is my family

My dad is the sort who keeps up with things like rocket launches from Vandenberg Airforce Base. So he had us all informed about the launch on Friday night. He set a timer so we wouldn't miss it, then passed out on the couch with a book on his face while my mom and I made Shabbat dinner. The timer went off, we all put on shoes, and the five of us trooped out of the house and down the greenbelt to the park. Halfway there, my dad yells, "THERE IT IS!" and we all start running. Had anyone looked out their window at that moment they would have seen a family of five, the dad and older son in the lead, followed by the ten year old son, followed by the adult daughter and mom, all five tearing down the greenbelt in an assortment of pajamas and clothing, screaming and laughing.
We reached the park in time to catch the end of the first stage flare, and the second stage as well. It was incredible, watching this jet of flame move across the sky and then finally disappear.

And then we walked back up to the house, and had dinner.

Seriously? I adore my family.

New Life

I'm bringing it back. Bringing back the blog. Gonna make an effort to make it a part of my life.

It used to be very easy for me to blog. I had a Xanga when I was a wee little teen, and I wrote all the time-obsessively even. It's gotten much more difficult for me to translate thoughts to words to screen. But repetition smooths the way. I just have to stick to it.

So! I have three blogs, and I'm going to resist making more. Making blogs is even more addicting than writing blog posts. I have a politics blog, because I think that's a very selective topic. It has a life of its own and I want to keep it separate.
I have a blog about Torah and Judaism because that's a subject I care about and I want a space to explore it, undisturbed.

Fine, fine, two blogs with specific topics. But everything else? RIGHT HERE!
Stupid thoughts, ramblings and wonderings, funny videos, outrageous news, craft how-to's, everything that makes up me (besides politics and Judaism, of course).
So I guess this is my cat-blog.

Full steam ahead!