tall discrimination

We have three friends in town so there is no way I can properly post the usual crapola. But I will say that the first one to arrive was my friend Nikki, from law school, last night. I dragged her to a JMU happy hour. Go Dukes. It was attended by five people. We have to work on our international presence. Go Dukes. Then I went to two more bars. Yael, stop drinking.

My friendship with Nikki, besides the ridiculous photos we have together (“height differences are funny”), has taught me about the struggle of tall women. Not only are they already reduced to a dating pool of 1% of all men, but said tall men GO FOR SHORT WOMEN (I’m looking at you Tony Parker). The injustice of it all. I have always done my part to support my tall sisters by not competing for men. I like shorties. Meaning, short. Not the other kind of shorty. Not only do I crush hard on short men, I have even been known to like a dwarf or two. Namely, Peter Dinklage in The Station Agent. But enough about me.

And why do we all think it’s so weird to see a taller woman with a shorter man? I’ll admit, these photos are crazy to me.

Now I’m logging off. Our friends from Chicago, Dave & Trina, are here. And we are definitely going to get into some trouble.

oh no you di-int

I was jarred silly this morning while groggily reading my internet homepage- The Times of London, only to discover an article suggesting Oprah’s show is past its prime. The nerve. Who do the English think they are discussing a beloved American icon? I demand that the New York Times immediately starts speculating on the fall of Mr. Bean. Oh wait, he sucks.

But this is eerily timely. Just last night as I watched two back-to-back episodes of Oprah off the slingboxed DVR (a Nate Berkus dream house and a family on Long Island destroyed by a drunk driver), I really did think to myself: “Self, is Oprah one of the greatest human beings in our lifetime?”

Now, I know that just by saying those words I am exposing myself as some cliched and generic female that all Oprah-haters lump together as overly sentimental Philistines.

Hmm.

Well, I would certainly love your thoughts on the matter, since I can’t seem to shake my devotion to her. Just a few reasons why:

• She talks a lot about books. Who else, with even a fraction of the power she has, does that? She got the only interview with Cormac McCarthy in a decade for pete’s sake.
• Oprah gives a lot of her money away. She has built schools, given to her Angel Network, built people houses, revamped people’s lives and shared her favorite things with her audience.
• She never sells out. If Oprah has a certain opinion that a behavior or political stance is wrong, you won’t see her embracing a guest or endorsing a product that would communicate the opposite. She took on Texas cattlemen and James Frey.
• Moments on her show become part of our cultural lexicon, e.g. couch-jumping.
• She asks hard questions. When I watch Oprah interview a famous or infamous person, I don’t want to gouge both my eyes out and impale my eardrums like I do when Larry King throws his old-timey softballs around.
• She says some pretty insightful things. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Decades of dealing with the country’s top psychologists, doctors, and transformational life coachy guru-types has given Oprah a pretty amazing ability to size people up.
• There are entire subjects in the world that I now think back to an old episode of Oprah as a touchstone for my understanding of them. Adultery, for one thing. Because Denial is not just a river in Eqypt (ooh, I love that expression!).
• All she does is work. For us. She has a tv show, a radio show on satellite, a magazine, she blogs, and leads nightly internet workshops.
• And even so, even so, she seems human. We know she struggles with her weight, her abusive past and the way people question her relationship with Stedman.

Okay haters, bring it on.

may 28, 2007

Today last year it was Memorial Day and I was boarding a plane to Montego Bay, Jamaica. Bryan and I flew with my brother Josh and our friend Greg, and through the generosity of Bryan and Greg with their frequent flyer miles, we all flew first-class. My dress hung in the airplane closest, we drank multiple bottles of wine and champagne, and we laughed at all the brides flying coach.

Mostly I was just on my way to the best week of my life.

amsterdam

Here is my advice: if you really want to almost ruin an anniversary weekend away, lose a brand-new camera [see post below]. The careless loss I effectuated by (probably) leaving our camera in the backseat of a taxi in Amsterdam could maybe be forgiven were it not for the fact that I dropped our last brand-new camera in January.

Yael’s luck with cameras in 2008: 0 for 2

Bryan’s waning patience with scatterbrained and costly wife: too waning to count

So you will forgive the stock photography that will help narrate this post.

Amsterdam is everything people say it is (profound, I know). Hundreds of canals, hundreds of bridges, beautiful magnificent canal-side homes, boats, houseboats, every single person on a bike, “coffee shops,” red light district, tulip bulbs for sale at the flower market, quirky and lovable Dutch people, art, cafes, parks and beautiful neighborhoods to walk through.

Saturday was glorious weather so we stayed outside the entire time, and ate and drank at canal-side cafes. It is so easy for a visitor to absolutely marvel at how every single person in Amsterdam rides a bike. It is as natural as walking or driving for Dutch people. You see moms and dads balancing multiple children on bikes, people biking while walking their dogs, talking on a cellphone, carrying flowers and bags and biking along side a friend and chatting. Men in suits, women in skirts, children, elderly. Everyone bikes. The bikes are worn and rusty and totally utilitarian and they are only sometimes locked up, but look like they are rarely stolen. And no helmets, ever. In fact, I think the most dangerous people are the people on bikes.

The canals are where it’s at. 47 miles of them, over a thousand bridges, incredible homes, 2,500 houseboats, party boats, tours, leisurely water gawkers. Groups of people seem to troll the canals via boat and people-watch at the leisurely and enjoyable rate of a St. Tropez yachter, with a lot less pomp and circumstance. We did a canal tour on a bigger boat- a chain called “CanalBus” which had the unfortunate bad luck of being a prime target of pranksters painting over just one letter. We giggled all day long when its boats would pass, with huge lettering on the side announcing: “Hop on! Hop off! All day anal cruises!”

We celebrated one almost-year of marriage at the fancy La Rive, on the Amstel canal. So many firsts that night… I wore my new Kate Moss for Topshop dress, curled my hair, lost our camera and ate wagyu beef so expensive I am actually ashamed. It was good, but not that good.

Later in the weekend we sampled Dutch beers and met up with our friend Vanja, who came in from Rotterdam to have dinner with us. Vanja is the 21 year-old beautiful former au pere of Bryan’s cousins in Virginia. Now you might be thinking why did I want us to meet up with a beautiful Dutch 21 year-old former au pere, when just the words “au pere” trigger something unholy in a man? Because she’s sweet, and I love her. And I am awesome.

We also took in the Van Gogh Museum and the Anne Frank House. Both were excellent, and I actually learned some new things. For example:

• Van Gogh is not pronounced “Van Go” like Americans think it is. The “Gogh” is pronounced in a way that completely eludes phonetic spelling and if you want me to teach it to you, I say, act like you’re coughing up a stubborn hairball. That is the sound.
• Van Gogh did not cut off his entire ear and mail it to a woman. He got in a fight with Gauguin and was also depressed and epileptic, and cut off part of the lobe.
• I did buy some prints, sue me. But not Starry Night.
• We are both Van Gogh fans. Like I said, sue me.
• I am fascinated by artists who become famous after their death. Vincent (we’re on a first-name basis) was basically painting only for his brother during his lifetime.
• Speaking of famous after, the Anne Frank House did not disappoint. It was an exacting and sensitive treatment of the unbelievably true story of her family hiding in the annex of a canal house in Amsterdam for two years.
• All Anne Frank wanted was to be a famous writer. And I hope she knows her dream came true.

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P.S. Amsterdam is nothing like Hamsterdam. If you know what I mean.

memory card, oh memory card

We didn’t know eachother a long time, 2 gig camera SD memory card. But like some of the best relationships, we were fast and furious. I trusted you immediately, and so I shared some of my most intimate moments with you. Now, I don’t know where you are. Maybe in the grubby hands of our mean Dutch taxi driver. Maybe you’re being sold on Europe’s ebay as we speak. I’ll never know. But instead of dwelling on the nefarious and unseemly loss of you, I choose to honor your memory.

In the early months, you were my connection to home. You dutifully captured my amateurish photos of our new life abroad, and allowed me to stubbornly jam you into the side of the laptop multiple times before Picasa would decide to open. We always traded a quick knowing glance when I would click “safe delete.” We didn’t mess around- we made you tabula rasa each and every time. And together we captured sunny days in parks, visits from loved ones, trips in the U.K. As a matter of fact, you were there before it all began. Remember that crazy going-away party in Manhattan?!

But it’s just a few days ago that I will think of forever. Those first attempted artsy sepia-tone shots of us on the train out of Paddington station, on the way to Heathrow. You know how there is nothing like the moment you embark on a trip? In some ways, the feeling is more pure, more high, than the trip itself. It’s like how Friday feels euphoric and Christmas Eve is just pure possibility. Or the grin when your roller coaster ride starts uphill.

And then Saturday- my god. 75 degrees and blue skies in the magical city of Amsterdam. Over 100 shots we took and I remember all 100. Me posing in the big yellow clog, much to Bryan’s chagrin. The glow of suntanned shoulders as we watched hundreds of boaters pass by while we sipped Dutch beer. That hen party of girls dressed all in pink, the “bar” trolley with the men singing and chanting, the vertical shots, the horizontal views, the series of black & white pictures of me that Bryan took. The endless attempts to capture the happy absurdity of everyone biking everywhere. And lots of dogs on boats. All of it.

I don’t miss your vessel- that brand-new tricked-out Canon with the huge LCD display view. I know I should miss your host camera, with it’s power and flash and terrible expense to us. But there will be others. But there will never be those not-yet-downloaded 100 photos of our trip that you took with you when I carelessly let you out of my grasp.

So long my memory card friend. Thanks for the memories. Even if someone else is looking at them right now.

english hats

You know you love them, everybody does. It’s how Americans can romanticize British weddings and royalty. I actually have few goals over the next few years (besides finish The Wire and keep avoiding gingivitis) but one of them is: get invited to an English wedding. The first step is to make an English friend. Crap.

Some people had harsh words for SJP’s Philip Treacy hat at the SATC premiere in London.

Not me. I thought it was adorable and one of the few ways we can still differentiate British and American culture (because they like Doritos here so that won’t work…).

My favorite other expat blogger in London who will become my best friend once we meet, writes about these hats and “fascinators”, and I just want one sooo bad. And have you heard the news? George Bush is coming to London. It’s like The Beatles in reverse. Now I know what to wear for his arrival.

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By the way, the new Xbox cord worked. Bryan said, you are a lucky girl. I was like, YOU ARE A LUCKY BOY. I AM AWESOME. I didn’t present any supporting facts, just the conclusion.

K, off to Amsterdam tonight. Happy 3-day weekend to everyone in the U.S. and U.K. Whoaaaaaaaaa, we are so on the same page.