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Archive for February, 2006

My contractor makes me want to cry

February 28th, 2006

Work today is driving me insane. I was going to answer a couple of good “Dear Jamy” questions, but they will have to wait until tomorrow. Today, I will complain about work.

I didn’t cry today, but I felt tears of frustration pushing against my eyes. If I weren’t quite as controlled as I am, some might have seeped out.

[Note: if you can guess where I work, please don’t mention it in the comments. I don’t want to get into trouble or get anyone else into trouble. Those of you who already know—shhh!]

I should first tell you a little about my job. I work in the research and policy office of a federal agency. My division does program evaluation. That is, we study our agency’s programs. We don’t measure how effective we are, usually, though that could be done (though not well or accurately). Mostly we document programs using administrative data, surveys, site visits and interviews. It’s basic social science research. We have a small staff and we employ contractors to do our national level studies. We write “Statements of Work,” which become part of larger “Requests for Quotes/Proposals” that the contractors bid on.

I write statements of work. I review proposals. I select contractors. After the project is underway, I manage it. Everything the contractor writes, I read and respond with comments. They must follow my comments or explain why they disagree. I sign their invoices and make sure they stay within budget. At the end of the project, the contractor submits a final written report. My agency publishes the report and I have to make sure that happens too, though there is a publication division that does the heavy lifting on that end.

I do a bunch of other things, but the core of my job is managing contracts. Right now, I have three active projects, but five is a more reasonable number. I would have five, but we have no no money for contract research because of budget cuts–vicious, unreasonable, painful cuts.

Since there are few firms in this country who do social science research, and even fewer who specialize in my agency’s area, we used to do the bulk of our contracting with maybe five firms. Only two of those consistently did good work.

Over the last four years, our job has been made even more difficult by a directive to work with small businesses whenever possible. That cut out our top two firms. It’s fine to ask us to widen our net, but now the small businesses have to be the lead contractor on projects where they have no expertise. Smart small firms subcontract with a larger firms in order to come up with good proposals. All of the contracts I’m running are 51% small firm/49% large firm deals. Sometimes the large firm has more than 50% of dollars, but less than 50% of the hours (or is it the other way around? No one is clear on this, even the contracting office), but that is still ok. Um, sure it is. Whatever.

One of my contractors is a “small” firm that has substantive knowledge, but lacks methodological expertise. The project involves a national level survey and a complicated sampling plan, so they hired a methods guy as their “partner.” The methods guy is an idiot and one of the worst writers I’ve yet to encounter in this job. The last set of comments I gave them on their “Data Collection and Analysis Plan” was ten pages long (on a 40 page document; that is not good). The Project Director at the lead firm is one of the worst people I’ve ever worked with. He does not listen to me. At all. Just the other day, we had this exchange:

Jamy: So, on this cover sheet for the survey, is there a place to record [vital information]? Is it this box called “reference”?

Project Director: It’s in the yellow part of the form.

Jamy: My copy of the form doesn’t have any yellow on it. Is it “reference”?

PD: It should be in the highlighted part of the form.

Jamy: Right, but my version doesn’t have the highlight. I know we’re not looking at the same version of the form, but this box is on both, I’m sure. So, is the box called “reference” the place where the inspector would write down [vital information]?

PD: We must not have the same version of the form.

Jamy: Right.

PD: The place to write down that information is in the box called “reference.” It says “reference.”

Jamy: Well, I wasn’t sure. Because “reference” isn’t intuitive to me. But if it’s the language that the inspectors know, then we can just keep it. That’s fine.

PD: It’s right there in the yellow. We can move it.

Jamy: No, that’s fine.

PD: The inspectors will know what “reference” means.

Jamy: Ok, so let’s just keep it. But make a code sheet or something to put it in lay language.

PD: If it’s not intuitive, we can change the form.

Jamy: No, don’t change the form. It’s fine. We can just make a note.

Do you see why I’m frustrated with him?

In order to get permission to do our survey, we have to submit a huge package of papers to the Office of Management and Budget (OMB) under the Paperwork Reduction Act. The main part of the package is a “justification” that explains why you need to do the survey or “information collection” as OMB calls it. The “paperwork reduction” is for the people who have to fill out our surveys—the idea is to prevent duplication of effort. Fine, but the upshot is a package is almost 200 pages long. Luckily, most of it is submitted electronically. (It is an irony that escapes no one that something called the “Paperwork Reduction Act” causes us to produce hundreds and hundreds of pages of paper.)

We’re at the end of one step of the process and I’m trying to get the package in the right format for OMB. There are “OMB police” who are employees of my agency who have to clear the package before we send it to OMB. I’ve been several rounds with these folks and made most of the changes they requested. I got to a point, though, were I decided it would be faster to have the contractor make the final changes. I wrote the Project Director a note last Friday (2/17) telling him exactly what I needed:

The final package should have the following items, each as a separate word document (not necessarily in this order–rather in the order they are mentioned in the justification):

The justification, parts A & B (make the needed changes on the version I sent earlier)

Form OMB-83I (I sent this to you, no changes are needed)

The [technical] report [I just needed a clean version; the orignal had formatting problems]

The Federal Register notice (again, just use what I sent, no changes)

The [long] survey instrument, with the Paperwork Reduction Act statement on the first page

The [first short] survey instrument (I’ve attached a copy and this is what you should use)

The [second short] survey instrument (again, this is attached)

It took my contractor five business days to do this. This was after he called and had to ask many clarifying questions. Please note that I sent them copies of five of the seven items on the list. The other two items needed some words changed, but were documents the contractor had already submitted to me. I specifically gave instructions on how to send the documents to me via email.

Instead, today, I received by courier, a box with three hard copies of the new package (3×170pp) and two CDs. One CD with the Word files, zipped. The other CD with a PDF of the whole fucking thing. There are so many things wrong with this, I don’t even know where to start.

It’s not delivered in the manner I’d requested—namely email attachments. Then, there are silly duplications. The word files don’t need to be zipped if they’re on a CD—I’ll have to unzip them anyway to check for errors. I don’t need two CDs when both the PDF file and the Word files could easily have fit on one. Neither CD is labeled.

But, fine, I have the soft copies and that’s all I need. I expected to open the zip file on the CD and find seven Word documents. Guess how many there were? Hint: a lot more than seven.

Eighteen. There were eighteen documents. Some were “dividers,” (the contractor’s word). That is, they just said, “Attachment 1″ and nothing else. Useless when the whole thing is being submitted electronically.

The very worst part was that the long survey instrument was cut up into eight separate documents. I practically tore my hair out when I saw this. I knew I would have to put them all together and that would no doubt lead to anguish.

I ranted to my colleague, TR, and then to my boss. I shot an email to the contractor,

I am perplexed as to why the [long] survey instrument is divided into so many parts. This is confusing and I have to knit it back together for the OMB package. I don’t know why some items have separate cover sheets and others don’t.

It took them a while to respond, but they said that joining the eight documents into one would be troublesome, though they declined to say why. Eventually, a PDF of just that item arrived. I got rid of the “divider” pages, zipped everything up and sent it to the OMB police at my agency. It hasn’t bounced back and I haven’t heard from them yet—in this case, no news is good news.

I am scared about what will happen when they go into the field. They cannot carry out a simple request, they went over budget on the first phase of this project, the project director does not listen to me—what’s going to happen when we get to the meat of this project? We’re talking about a million dollar contract—the entire project is 1.4 million—but we only have million to put into it right now. And you know what that means? After these bozos screw up the data collection, get the sample weights all wrong and create an unusable database, yours truly will have to clean up the mess, do the statistical analysis and write the final report.

Oh joy.

Grateful for: the end of this work day.
Drop me a line.

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Sharing

February 27th, 2006

When I was dating my important grad school boyfriend, Tom, we had a fight about sharing bathroom items. [Note: I’ve always referred to him as “vip-ex” but I’m sick of it. He gets a name now and that name is “Tom.”]

Tom was insulted because I didn’t want to share my hairbrush and bath towel with him. My reaction was, “Wouldn’t you prefer your own hairbrush and bath towel?”

“You’re being petty. You don’t care about me.”

“What are you talking about?” I didn’t know that sharing bath items was a sign of affection. “How can you say I’m petty?”

“When I go stay with my dad we use the same towel all the time and it’s no big deal.”

“Well, in my house everyone got their own towel. I’m just treating you like any other guest.”

“I don’t want to be treated like a guest. You don’t want me here.” Tom said.

“I can’t believe you. Look, I don’t care if we share a towel, but when I get out of the shower, I want a dry towel. Just leave a dry one for me, ok?”

“Ok.”

But we still hadn’t resolved the matter of the hairbrush.

When I was a little girl, I was fascinated by the objects my father pulled out of his pockets and placed on his dresser at the end of the day: a half-eaten roll of mints, a Chapstick with the label worn off, a comb and piles of change. I would touch all of these items, use the Chapstick and eat a mint if he weren’t looking. On more than one occasion, I asked to use his comb. Dad said, “Don’t use the comb–I have dandruff and I don’t want you to catch it.” Thus, I merely worshipped the comb from afar. I also thought that you could catch dandruff.

Guess who else had dandruff? Tom, that’s who. I usually keep my hair long and I tend to buy a new brush every couple of years. The old ones don’t wear out, but they get dirty, they’re hard to clean and sometimes I just want a new style. Sometimes I get one that’s not really suited to my type of hair (straight, fine, and abundant). The old brushes knock around in the bathroom cupboards for years until I finally get sick of seeing them and toss them in the trash. I had a couple of nice, lightly used, good quality brushes, which I offered to Tom. Of course, he never used a brush, just a comb, but I only had one comb and I didn’t offer it to him. Because of the dandruff.

The same day we fought about the towel, he said, “Why can’t I just use your brush?”

I said, “Don’t you prefer using your own?”

“No. It’s a pain.”

“That’s silly, it’s right there in drawer You can use any of the brushes in there.” I said.

He asked, “Why can’t I use yours?”

“Look, I’d just prefer if you didn’t.”

“You’re being selfish.”

“Really? You think that?” I was hurt. “I’m offering you two really nice choices–that boar bristle brush is practically brand new and it’s perfect for your hair. I’ve only used it a couple of times.”

“I don’t like it. Why can’t I use yours?” Tom insisted.

I sighed. “I don’t want to share the brush with you because you have dandruff.”

“What? Really?”

“I don’t want to catch your dandruff.” I felt foolish saying it because as soon as I did, I realized it probably wasn’t possible to catch dandruff.

“You can’t catch dandruff.”

“Oh. Really? I didn’t know that.” It was one of those little myths I’d been carrying around since childhood and I had never needed to question it before.

“Who told you that? It’s not a disease.”

“My dad told me. When I was little. So, I just thought…you really can’t catch it?”

“No.”

“Oh. Hmm.” But I wasn’t entirely convinced.

A couple of weeks later, I asked my hair dresser about catching dandruff and he laughed and laughed. “What do you think, you can catch grey hairs too?” Well, no, I’m not stupid. But I had to laugh at myself a little too.

After that, I offered to share my brush with Tom. He declined and just used his fingers.

I guess I should be grateful that he never asked to share my toothbrush.

Another boyfriend-related sharing experience was with my first Chapel Hill boyfriend, Fred. He used to spend a lot of time at my place because he lived in the dorms and hated his roommate. The roommate hated me too so I only spent the night there once or twice. When he stayed at my place, Fred would always leave his shoes and socks in the middle of the room, insuring that I would trip over them if I made a visit to the bathroom in the night. I said to him, “Could you please put your stuff next to the wall where I won’t trip on it?” But he never did.

One day, I was clearing out my closet and I made some room for Fred. I said, “Here’s a shelf for you–you can put your stuff here.”

He never left his shoes in the middle of the room again. Apparently, that was his way of marking his territory. But he never would have asked for a shelf. Fred was the silent type.

When I was going steady with Tom (in the same era as the bathroom sharing incident), I spent a lot of time at his house. He lived closer to campus and he cooked dinner for us almost every night. (I adore a boyfriend who cooks.) I didn’t wait for him to clear out shelf space for me. One day I said, “I need somewhere to put my pajamas. What about up here? I’m moving your stuff.” I put my things in an out of the way spot on the high shelf in his closet. He was surprised, but he didn’t stop me. Later he made a more convenient part of the closet available to me, so I guess it was ok.

Sharing, that’s what it’s all about. I like that I was able to see Tom’s point of view on the towels and the brushes, though I still think it’s odd that he would accuse me of being petty for wanting to keep things separate. The truth is, I didn’t mind sharing, especially since it was so (symbolically) important to him.

When someone is spending a lot of time in your space, it can be hard for them to ask for what they need. That was Fred’s problem. He was in my house, following my rules–it was undeniably my place. But by giving him that little tiny space of his own, I let him know he was welcome and he was much more comfortable after that.

With Tom, I didn’t have any problem claiming a little space for myself. But with other guys I would probably wait until they offered. You have know how to read the situation.

Grateful for
: learning to share.

Drop me a line.

P.S. I asked Pele to read an earlier draft of this post to make sure the switching back and forth between Tom and Fred wasn’t confusing. That didn’t bother her, but she said, “I’m not sure about that last paragraph. What’s the moral of the story?” I said, “You want a moral, huh? Dammit.” And you will notice that I did find a moral and it’s there in the last three paragraphs. It’s nothing that you couldn’t have figured out on your own, but it’s a better conclusion. The original ending wasn’t linked to the rest of the story. It was, rather, a musing summary of the issues that led to my breakup with Tom. It may get it’s own post someday, but this isn’t the place.

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More movies

February 25th, 2006

I’ve got a couple of new things up over at the movie site. Take a look if you’re so inclined.

Big Momma and Madea

Match Point

Transamerica

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A shoe story

February 25th, 2006

When I was in Seattle last October, I bought a pair of shoes. This is not an uncommon occurrence. There is a particular store in Wallingford where Mom and I end up and they have a good selection of comfy, expensive shoes. This time, there was a sale and I found a pair of Keen shoes that fit and were cute–sort of. While I’m a bit fan of comfortable shoes, I don’t care for ugly shoes. I don’t like Birkenstocks and I’ve always thought Keens were, well, not so keen. But, these didn’t have the big black strip on the toe and they were bargain priced, so I figured why not. My only objection was that they were red-ish. I buy almost exclusively black shoes. They go with my collection of almost exclusively black slacks. I have sandals and sneakers of many colors, but day-to-day shoes are black. Anyway, my mom hates my penchant for black and because this pair was red, she encouraged me to buy them. And buy them I did.

I wore my new shoes around town for a couple of days and I noticed a problem. The right shoe was too short. My toes were hitting the end when I walked. The left shoe was fine. As is true for most people, one of my feet is slightly larger than the other–but it’s my left foot. So I knew the problem had to be the shoe itself. The shoes were marked the same size, and they looked the same but I thought I could detect a tiny difference in length. And I could feel the difference. I decided to take the shoes back and see if the store would help me out.

The lady at the store said, “If you hadn’t worn them, maybe we could have done something.”

“But it’s clearly a manufacturer’s defect.” I said, plaintively.

“There’s nothing we can do. I don’t see a problem.” She examined the shoes, checking for a difference in length. “The look the same to me.”

“They don’t feel the same.” I said, “You can’t send them back? I mean if the problem is how they made them, the manufacturer should replace them.”

“I’m sorry, we can’t do that.”

Ok then.

After that thoroughly unsatisfactory experience, I took the shoes back to DC. It occurred to me to get in touch with Keen directly. I wrote an email and explained the problem. Within a week or so, I received a response telling me to expect a call. In a few days, I got a call from Peg, who worked at Keen. She let me know that they would arrange for a local (DC) store to make an exchange for me. I was delighted. Peg said, “Call James at [local store] and he’ll take care of it.”

The next day, I called James and I brought the shoes to his store after work. This was shortly before Thanksgiving. James gave me his card and said I should call in a week or two.

I called. Nothing. I waited. And called. James was not there. I called. I left my number for James. I waited. Then I forgot.

Many weeks later, well into January, I remembered. I stopped by the store and, by chance, James was there. He said the folks at Keen hadn’t sent him the replacement shoes. “We don’t carry that kind.”

I said, “I know. I thought they were supposed to send you a new pair.”

He seemed to blame me for not telling him what kind of new shoes I wanted. I figured

that would be obvious. I was confused.

James said, “I don’t even remember the lady’s name. Do you have her number?”

“I remember. Her name is Peg. I have her number at my office. I can get it tomorrow.”

“Call me and give me the number and I’ll get in touch with her.”

“So you want to call her?” I asked.

“It’s better if I call her.” James assured me. “Sometimes they can be funny about that.”

When I got to the office the next day, I found the woman’s number. I called her myself. It’s true, I didn’t completely trust James. Peg didn’t remember me, but with enough information and a few dates she found me in her records. She said, “I’ll call James and get this sorted out. I’m really sorry.” I thanked her profusely.

The next day Peg called and said the shoes were on their way to James’ store.

So I waited. And called. And waited. And called. I called three times this week. Unless James was there, no one knew what I was talking about–no one could find the shoes. The person I spoke to on Wednesday said that James was working on Friday. I called on Friday before I left work and James was there. He said the shoes had been there for a week and a half but he didn’t have my number. I said, “I’ve called, but no one knew what I was talking about.”

I stopped by the store on my way home and picked up the shoes. It’s only been four months. They are not the same model as I bought originally–that kind is discontinued. This pair is fabulously ugly with a huge black toe cap. What’s the deal with the exclamation point inside the yellow triangle? I wish I’d ordered black instead of “garnet.” Peg talked me into them. She said they were very comfortable and that the black looked dull. But, Peg, black goes with everything. When am I going to wear ugly red shoes?

I sure hope they fit.

Grateful for
: new shoes.

Drop me a line.

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Israel

February 24th, 2006

Every time I mention Israel, I get a couple of comments, so I’m going to write about it. Be warned, this is a long, ramble of a post. Maybe my complicated family stuff and my radical politics and my unconventional views on religion explain it. You tell me–if you make it to the end.

(My trip is March 16-21 and Miss Tabitha still needs a home. Poor kitty.)

I have no romantic ideas about Israel. I don’t think of it as my homeland. I’m living in my homeland. I’ve been there twice before, both times to visit my family (one of my older brothers lives there). Minimal sightseeing was involved.

Both trips occurred about 16 years ago. Maybe a year after I graduated from college, I finally took the solo trip to Europe I’d talked about ever since going on a college-sponsored group trip the summer before my senior year (I was 18). On my solo trip, I was 21, which is why I have the timing about right. The trip lasted about three months and I spent two weeks of it in Jerusalem, sleeping in what can only be termed a closet (with a window) off of the living room in my brother’s tiny apartment. I also served (willingly) as an informal mother’s helper for my sister-in-law. Oh, except for the three or four days when I was knocked out by a stomach virus or a reaction to the local water. After that, my sister-in-law started boiling water, filling up old 2-liter coke bottles and chilling them in the fridge for me. There were four kids then and my nephew was five. Some highlights:

Renting a car, challenging when you are under 25, but somehow I managed it.
Driving to Tiberius with my brother, taking a dip in the Sea of Galilee (it’s just a really big lake). We took turns waiting for each other in the car—no co-ed bathing in his religion.
Getting lost on the way back, at night, without a proper map.
Looking at the Dead Sea but not going in.
Looking at Masada but not climbing up.
Preventing my nephew from fooling me into buying him two gumballs instead of one due to my ability to count to 7 in Hebrew.
Staying up late into the night three or four times talking to my brother—we bonded.
Going to see “Pretty Woman” with my sister-in-law—we bonded a little too.

Even though Israel doesn’t have the “homeland” resonance for me, I did have this funny feeling one day when I was walking on my own in downtown Jerusalem. I looked around and I thought, “Everyone of these people is a Jew. The exceptions are the non-Jews.” While I’ve been lucky that I’ve encountered very little anti-Semitism, I’d never had the feeling of being in the majority–where being Jewish was taken for granted. Perhaps I could have had that experience at the Jewish summer camp I attended if the other kids hadn’t been so mean. The only bonding along these lines occurred when I asked my tent-mates one of my standard getting-to-know-you questions, “What religion are you?” There was a moment of silence and then we all burst out laughing. That feeling of being in the majority is a cozy one.

The second trip to Israel took place just eight months after I returned from my mini-tour of Europe. My father was making his semi-annual trip to visit the grandchildren and my step-mother declined to accompany him (this was the first of two times she’s done that—she’s a trooper—and a good grandma to the kids—she’s their only living grandma, in fact). In her absence, Dad asked me to join him (Dad hates to travel alone). I agreed—I was working a crap temp job and I was happy to have a reason to quit. I remember relatively little about that trip except taking the two oldest kids to Tel Aviv for the day and watching them swim in Mediterranean in their underpants. Very cute and possibly one of the last times they were nice to each other. Oh, and how could I forget the mini-van Dad forced me to drive to the “safari” about an hour away. Look at the lions! Keep your hands in the van! Mommy, I can’t see! The van only had seatbelts for the front seats and on the way home we had four tired, crying, sick kids rolling around in the back. It was great.

One reason for my upcoming trip is that my friend, Spesh, has been asking me to visit since the day he got back to Israel (January 16th). The Israeli family has also been asking me to visit for at least the last two years (ever since I cancelled a trip I’d planned to make with Dad right after we started our war with Iraq—Dad was stuck on his own and he didn’t like that).

However, the main reason for this trip is that my 20-year-old nephew is getting married. The most common reaction to that news is, “You have a 20-year-old nephew?”

I have eight nephews and nieces. The Israelis: 20-19-18-16-11. The New Jerseys: 6-4-1. The oldest and youngest are boys. My brothers are 7 (B2) and 8.5 (B1) years older than I. B2 got married when he was 23. B1 got married about seven years ago, when he was 38. (If it isn’t abundantly clear by now, or you haven’t read previous posts about my family, I have a lot more in common with B1 than with B2. Oddly, temperamentally, B2 and I more alike. Life loves those little ironies.)

My Israeli family are strict Orthodox Jews. They could be characterized as “Ultra-Orthodox,” “Haredi,” or “frum.”

They have arranged marriages. However, the marriage of my nephew wasn’t arranged by a matchmaker–the bride is the niece of my nephew’s boss. The boss introduced them and I guess they’ve been dating–though I’m not sure what that means in their culture. The families got together and made the marriage arrangements. The bride is orthodox, but not to the same degree as my family.

My family follows the kosher rules to the letter, they dress modestly and they pray a lot. They keep the Sabbath, aka Shabbat, which runs from sunset Friday to sunset Saturday (actually, a bit later than sunset). Keeping Shabbat means that innumerable things are forbidden. The Shabbat don’ts include: lighting a fire (anything that creates energy is forbidden), tearing paper, carrying things outdoors, cleaning house, earning money, exchanging money, smoking and writing. Reading, eating, walking and praying are permitted. There are mixed opinions about bicycling.

The Ultra-Orthodox follow the covenant that the Jews made with God. That’s what Moses brought down from the mountain. It wasn’t just the ten commandments–it was a whole bunch of other rules too. To the Haredi, keeping the covenant defines being Jewish. That’s why the Reform are bad Jews–because we don’t keep the covenant.

It’s not entirely clear to me why we’re even considered Jewish if keeping kosher, etc., is what makes you a Jew, but that’s ok with me. Ideally, Reform Judaism is more about beliefs than practices.

However, you can also be a Jew by birth. Since my mother and her mother and her mother and her mother were Jews, I am a Jew. (One of my great-grandfather’s parents was Catholic, but the religion is passed through the maternal line so that doesn’t matter. It is not progressive–the reasoning is that you always know who your mother is.) There is lot of lineage baloney wrapped up in Judaism and it’s even more pronounced among the Orthodox, despite the covenant business. The Orthodox care a lot if you have a famous Rabbi perched somewhere in your family tree.

Interestingly, since keeping the covenant makes you a Jew, it’s possible to convert to Judaism (there are tests involved). In fact, B2 had to convert because his mother was not Jewish. (I share a father with my brothers, but we have different mothers. B1 and B2 are full brothers.) B1 converted too, but not until he was in his 30s, in anticipation of his marriage (another long story). If you want your conversion to “count,” though, it must be Orthodox. An Orthodox conversion will actually earn you the right of return to Israel; a Reform conversion will not.* Because, you know, Reform Jews aren’t really Jewish.

*I can’t document this, but it’s what I was taught in religious school. Someone correct me if I’m wrong.

I know that when some people find out I’m Jewish they will look at me differently. My differences were emphasized early because I went to elementary school in Knoxville, TN (The South). I’ve never minded answering a lot of questions about Judaism. I’ve always been on an informal education mission for my religion–transforming the bible stories into short comic myths. There is some good stuff in the old testament. And, thanks to B2, I know more about the ins and outs of kashrut (kosher in Hebrew) than any Reform Jew you’ll ever meet.

I’m not offended by questions, but I am offended when people tell me that Judaism is a culture and not a religion. My position is that it is a religion. You can convert to it. Sure you have to ask three times (the rabbi will turn you away the first two times), but it is allowed. I just read something, in the search for a definition of “frum” on the internet, that said you don’t even have to be circumcised to be a Jew. There are some rituals you can’t take part in if you aren’t circumcised, but that’s it. Born of a Jew, you are still a Jew. Oh, wait. I’m contradicting myself.

Still, the idea of a Jewish “race” is offensive—it feels like racism. I want to be able to believe whatever I want to believe because I’ve chosen to believe it, not because I’m born to it. I want to choose to carry on whatever family traditions I like because they are traditions in my family, not because of a racial obligation. We know that if you are black, you are burdened with all kinds of expectations—you are supposed to be a good athlete or like rap music, or dozens of other inane and infinitely more offensive things. I guess that’s how I feel when people tell me that Jews are a race. I’m a member of that race, which means what? What expectations of yours do I have to defy to prove that it does not define me?

There is a woman at work who talks about her Jewish friends in New Jersey and she’ll say things like, “You know, that’s what Jewish people do.” Once I said to her, “I’m Jewish and I’ve never done a single one of those things you mentioned. Maybe it’s a New Jersey thing.” Maybe.

Even worse, Israel a propagates a most virulent kind of racism. I’m not saying we should get rid of the state of Israel or that there shouldn’t be a sanctuary for Jews, though in a ideal world we wouldn’t need one—I recognize that’s not where we live. But it’s still troubling. Did you know that,

…the UN maintains a separate and distinct definition of the word “refugees” for Palestinians who left Israel in 1948 and/or 1967. Palestinian refugees from Israel are classed as both the individuals who left Israel and any descendants of those individuals. This stands in contrast to the UN definition of refugee as it applies to displaced persons connected with territories other than those of the State of Israel: in the latter case it refers only to those individuals who were forced to flee, not to their lineal descendants.

(Reference.)

This is beyond disturbing. Jews and all of their descendents and non-Jewish family members have the right to return to Israel. Palestinian refugees and all of their descendents do not.

What does this have to do with me and Judaism? I don’t know. I take part in very few Jewish activities. I celebrate some of the Jewish holidays at home. I go to services for the High Holidays, for reasons that are obscure even to me. Spesh continually tells me that I’m an atheist (which I neither confirm nor deny). I tell him that believing in God is not required in Judaism, which is true, but belief is preferred. I am Jewish. I am firm about that I will never convert. (Remind me to tell you the story about the Baptist revival where my Judaism was tested and proved.)

I think the trip will be composed of one-third Spesh and two-thirds family. Spesh may end up spending time with my family. That will be interesting if it happens. On the diversity spectrum in Israel, my brother and Spesh are about as far apart you can get. All they have in common is their Eastern European heritage–and that’s only on my dad’s side for B2. Did you know that B2’s mother’s family came over on the Mayflower? It doesn’t get much more WASP-y than that. Interestingly, B2’s mother was more accepting of his conversion to Judaism than anyone else in the family. Before her untimely death she actually moved to Israel and converted to Orthodox Judaism.

Can you believe that I could write more about Judaism, Israel and my trip? I’ll stop for now.

Feel free to debate me in the comments, but let’s try and keep things civil, ok? Ok.

Grateful for
: being a Jew.

Drop me a line.

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Party Crasher

February 23rd, 2006

[Note: I’ve written two posts about my upcoming trip to Israel and I’m not satisfied with either. The first turned into a complaint fest about my NJ brother. Even I was bored. The second became a treatise on Judaism, sure to piss off a few people (it may yet be posted). There is also stuff to say about my mom that might be interesting, but I haven’t had time to write it (”we’re fine” is the short version). This story has been in the hopper for a while–I hope you enjoy.]

A few weeks ago, Kristin and I went to a party at a stranger’s house. We were invited the night before, so we didn’t crash the party, but it felt like we did. It reminded me of the time I really did a few years ago.

I’d just broken up with the 2nd DC boyfriend, Bruce. We dated for about nine months, six of them torturous. He was a good guy, but not for me. (He had a drinking problem and a bad temper, which were problems. He had some good qualities too–he was smart, funny, usually kind and good looking.) What kept me in it so long is that he was the “marrying kind” and that’s what I wanted. I tried hard to make it work because I wanted to get married. Within a week of our final break, he was dating someone else. Bruce is what they are talking about when they say “serial monogamist.” No time out at all. (He is married now, but not to the woman he dated immediately after me.)

While we were together, we tried to go salsa dancing a few times. I’d been dancing for years, so the first time we went, he took a lesson without me and I met him at the club later. It didn’t go so well. We tried one other time and he got angry at me when we danced and he didn’t know the moves. I did not correct him; he just blew up at me because he was frustrated. That was it for us and salsa dancing.

A couple of weeks after our breakup, I went to the same club on my own (the place where I still go with CK) and took a lesson. C-Money, who had just moved to town, was supposed to meet me there after the lesson. The lesson went fine and after it was over, I danced a few times. Then I started to look around for C-Money. It was past 10pm and I went downstairs to look for him.

He wasn’t there, instead, I spotted Bruce–with his new girlfriend! Great. I ducked into the bar and started talking to the only other white guy in the place. I ordered and downed a drink in about ten minutes and told my sorrows to a complete stranger. I even made the stranger dance with me for a few songs (I asked him to dance and he agreed). But then I started to feel overwhelmed with sadness and frustration. Where was C-Money? How could Bruce show up at MY place? When he KNEW I would be there–or at least that it would be very likely for me to be there? And he’s with his new girlfriend? When he and I couldn’t go there without a huge fight? I had to leave.

I took off, leaving a befuddled stranger and Bruce in my wake. I took a cab home and the first thing I did upon my arrival was to call Bruce and yell at him. It was about 1am and he answered the phone. I said, “It’s me.”

“Why are you calling?”

“What were you thinking?” I said.

“I saw you there.”

“Right. I saw you too. You have a lot of nerve.”

“You can’t call now. It’s crazy. I’m trying to have a good night here.”

“Oh, I’m crazy? You know, it’s really not cool you showing up there.”

“I’m hanging up now. I have to go.” Bruce hung up.

I was fuming and frustrated. I wasn’t even sure if I had a right to be angry with him. I looked out my big window and, across the street, I saw people. I heard music. Someone was having a party. I thought, “I’m going to that party.” I took a deep breath and walked across the street.

I walked into the house and a young woman greeted me. I said, “Hi, I’m a neighbor.”

“Oh, were we being too loud?”

“No. I just noticed you were having a party so I though I’d come over.”

“Ok.” She tilted her head at me. “Great. Do you want a beer–I’ll show you.”

And my impromptu hostess walked me to the kitchen and gave me a beer. After a little small talk about the neighborhood, she went back to the living room and I stayed in the kitchen. I drank my beer and watched the group. They were about my age, maybe a couple of years younger. A mix of lawyers and actors. I struck up a conversation with a guy who told me about his depression and why he didn’t drink. I told him how I got there and he listened sympathetically. After he left, I decided to call it a night and went home.

The next day, Bruce called me and we fought a little more. He called my behavior psychotic, which I thought was a little over the top. “It wasn’t psychotic–I’m not going to murder you. I was angry and I think you can understand why.”

“It’s totally insane that you called in the middle of the night.”

“Look, you were still there when I left. It’s not like you were asleep. It’s not like I woke you up.” If he’d left before me, I would not have called.

“It’s still crazy.”

“Oh, whatever. It’s just not cool that you were there.”

“Well, what, am I supposed to clear it with you when I go out?”

“No, of course not. But you know there was a pretty good chance I would be there. That it would be more likely after we broke up. You might have given me some warning.”

“It wasn’t my idea. [New girlfriend] wanted to go.”

“Great. So you’re fine going there with her, but not with me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You know, just, oh I don’t know. I’ll talk to you later.”

Consultations with many friends confirmed that even though I was being somewhat unreasonable, my feelings were justified. Since I’ve never bumped into Bruce there again, and I wouldn’t care now if I did, it’s proved to be a moot point.

A few months later, Pele and I went to see a band in Arlington. I was wandering through the crowd and a strange man greeted me enthusiastically, “Hey–it’s you–remember me?”

“No…you look really familiar…wait…that party…” It was the fellow I’d talked to at the party–the depressed non-drinker.

“Right–you crashed that party at my friend’s house.” He smiled when he said it.

“Oh dear.” I said. “That wasn’t my best night.”

“Hey, it’s cool. It was great that you did that.”

We hung out the rest of the night, but I never saw him again. Good guy.

Grateful for: kind strangers.
Drop me a line.

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How to Write a Dating Site Profile

February 21st, 2006

If you have made the decision to join a dating site in an attempt to find a potential match then you are probably already committed to becoming involved in a relationship. You have probably spent a great deal of time researching dating sites and deciding which one is right for you to join. Once you have decided to register with a dating site, the next step is to write and submit your profile to the site. This is very important because a well written profile will enhance your chances of making a connection. If you put care and effort into writing your profile you are more likely to receive a high volume of positive responses then you would if you just threw together a profile without much thought. Your dating site profile should be honest, well written, informative and eye catching. This type of profile will ensure that you get noticed on the dating site and that your profile stands out from all the others.

Before beginning to work on your own dating site profile, take a little time to view some of the profiles already posted. In reviewing these profiles take note of what seems to really stand out to you. If you are impressed with a profile, examine it closely and determine why you find the profile so intriguing and try to convey this same form of intrigue in your own profile without copying anything directly. Trying to incorporate methods that you found interesting in the profiles of other members will result in your profile generating interest as well. Also, if the dating site you have joined has a rating system for profiles or a log of how many times a profile has been viewed give careful consideration to profiles that are viewed frequently or have high ratings. Understanding what makes these profiles so popular will help you to write an eye catching profile for yourself. The first step to writing a successful dating site profile is to research the existing profiles of other members and figure out what works and does not work about them.

Once you have done your initial research of other profiles, it’s time to begin working on your own profile. Most dating sites offer a template for providing your profile. Before you are ready to start entering information, print out the template so that you can work on your profile away from your computer and give careful thought to your answers. Once you have created a rough draft of your profile, put it aside for a day or two and then take a look at it again and make sure everything still makes sense and that your profiles conveys the intended message. You can even take the opportunity to have a friend review your profile before you post it to the dating site. While you may be in a hurry to get your information posted, the extra time you spend preparing your profile will make your profile appear more polished than most.

Honesty is crucial to writing a successful dating site profile. You may be tempted to write a profile that is bound to attract attention but that is not exactly true but this really won’t help you to find a suitable match. Your false profile may lead to many responses but you are not likely to receive responses from those who share your interests. If you really want to attract responses from those who enjoy the same activities as you then it is important to write an accurate profile of yourself. For example it may impress those reading your profile to hear of your love of the theater, fine dining and the arts but if you are really a person who enjoys hiking and then enjoying a burger at a local diner with posters of Elvis Presley on the wall then you are not likely to find a suitable match by touting your love of the finer things in life.

Posting a picture is also very important to writing a successful dating site profile. While you may be self conscious about your appearance and hesitant to include a picture, neglecting to post one will lead people to assume the worst about your appearance. It will also make your profile not stand out as well as it would if you include a picture. Having a face to associate with the profile makes it more memorable and likely to receive a response. Choose a picture that is an accurate representation of your looks and conveys a sense of who you really are. If you are into glamour and appearance by all means use a photo of yourself where you are looking your most glamorous. There is nothing wrong with that as long as it reflects your true personality. However, if you are more of an outdoorsy and simple type choose a picture that shows your natural beauty. Don’t hesitate to include a picture with your dating site profile because profiles that do not include a photo are easily overlooked.

You can write a truly successful dating site profile. The keys to doing so are to research other successful profiles, put careful thought into writing your profile, answer questions honestly in your profile and include a picture. All of these tips will ensure that your profile stands out from the others on the dating site and that elicits the response you are looking for to your profile.

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Separating Love From Lust

February 21st, 2006

Merriam-Webster’s dictionary defines love as, “strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties,” and defines lust as, “an intense longing”. These two conflicting definitions help to separate love from lust. By definition alone the two differ in that, love is based on an affinity while lust is based solely on desire. The two also differ in how they affect a relationship but sometimes it becomes difficult to separate the two because lust can exist in the presence of love. Analyzing a loving relationship and a lustful relationship separately will help us to learn to distinguish love from lost.

love has a positive affect on a relationship because when love exists in a relationship both partners hold the happiness of the other in a high esteem and place the happiness of their partner ahead of their own desires. Love affects relationships in a myriad of ways including how the couple interacts, the leisure activities they participate in and the longevity of the relationship. In a loving relationship the couple behaves thoughtfully towards each other and is mindful of their partner’s feelings. In this type of relationship, each partner places themselves ahead of their partner and they strive to treat each other lovingly and with respect. Also, in a loving relationship the leisure activities that the couple participates in are based on a mutual love and respect. Activities are chosen with careful consideration to the partner’s feelings. In a loving relationship the partners typically engage in activities that they either either strongly agree on or those that are a compromise. While a couple in a loving relationship may not always be in complete agreement regarding leisure activities, they strive to compromise to ensure that both partners have the opportunity to engage in their preferred activities. Finally a relationship that is based on love is usually long lasting. The presence of love in the relationship enables a couple to work through any problems or difficulties that arise in the relationship and helps the relationship to endure. The thoughtfulness and caring that exists in a loving relationship helps the relationship to grown and endure.

Conversely a lustful relationship may not necessary have a negative affect on a relationship but it also may not be as positive as a loving relationship. Similarly to love, lust also affects a relationship in regard to how the couple interacts, the activities the couple participate in and the durability of the relationship. The primary difference between a lustful and a loving relationship is that while in a loving relationship the partners place a high value on the happiness of their partner, a lustful relationship is one in which the partners are consumed by their own desires. The partners in a lustful relationship place their needs and wants ahead of their partner’s desires. This alone is enough to make their partner feel disrespected and to not place a high value on the relationship. The fundamental selfishness that exists in a lustful relationship trickles down and affects the activities in which the couple participates. While those in a loving relationship strive to compromise and find activities that they both enjoy, those in a lustful relationship are more prone to insist on participating in activities that they enjoy regardless of whether or not their partner will also enjoy this activity. One final characteristic of a lustful relationship is that it is typically short lived. A lustful relationship is driven by passion and desire and once a goal is reached the partner becomes no longer desirable. With nothing else to drive the relationship it soon begins to wane and the couple often separates. Lustful relationships are characterized by a selfishness and lack of respect that typically results in a short and tumultuous relationship.

Complicating the issue of separating love and lust is that it is often possible for lust to exist within a loving relationship. The existence of lust within a loving relationship is often driven by a desire to become closer to the partner. This is a natural occurrence as a physical relationship is extremely important in a romantic relationship. When lust exists within a loving relationship it is not necessarily detrimental to the relationship. As long as the lust does not take over the love and become the dominant characteristic it can be a healthy part of the relationship. The opposite is not true, however. A lustful relationship can not also include love. The primary characteristic of selfishness does not enable love to factor into a lustful relationship. Placing your own desires ahead of your partner’s precludes the formation of a loving bond. While it’s not possible to have a lustful relationship with the existence of love a little bit of lust mixed into a loving relationship can lead to a closer connection and stronger bond for the couple.

Separating love from lust can be complicated but the key factors to remember is that a loving relationship is one based on selflessness and thoughtfulness while a lustful relationship is characterized by selfishness and thoughtlessness. These fundamental differences often affect whether or not a relationship will be long lasting and will endure the test of time. The separation of love from lust is further complicated by the fact that lust can exist in a loving relationship. The opposite, however, is not possible. Understand that lust can factor into a loving relationship and have a positive affect on the relationship is key to understanding the differences between love and lust.

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If it SEEMS to good to be true…

February 17th, 2006

Anne wrote: I was on lavalife to give it a spin. It was summer, I was bored, I was at home with the ‘rents before moving off to grad school..figured there was nothing to lose in just meeting a few men for the heck of it. If nothing else, I’d have some funny stories to share later on. I had no idea.

“Tim” seemed just fine online. He contacted me first, with an eloquent and sincere email.We had some pretty good AIM conversations, AND we clicked over the phone , as well. He arranged something pretty impressive for the first date. He said he would pick me up (yes, I learned my lesson!) and take me to an Italian restaurant, and then to a club. I thought it sounded wonderful and could not wait.

date night rolls around. He shows up in his souped-up Camaro. He steps out. Here is the only good part: his pictures did not do him justice. He was gorgeous. The first man I met off the ‘net who was a complete hunk, for lack of a better word.

My how that didn’t matter, even within a few minutes. He starts speeding and swearing and he blasts his ska tunes as loudly as he can to avoid conversation. The only things he muttered were things about ska and how it’s the only genre of music that matters. Wrong thing to say to a music major. Mind you, he had told me before we met that he loved Vivaldi and classic rock as well. LIAR!

At dinner, he asked me inappropriate questions such as if I would sleep with another woman for money. At that point, I would have slept with ROSIE O’ DONNELL to simply get me away from HIM!

He had no idea what anything on the menu was and kept staring at me to make me uncomfortable. He even told me this is why he was staring at me.

The rest of the night involved more speeding, more awful ska music, and his high school-ish antics…such as “punching” my arm and more stares. At one point, he turned one of his songs especially loud while announcing, “listen! this one’s about date RAPE! Probably not the best song to be playing now, huh? Ha!”.

He insisted on driving through a Wendy’s, where he told me he stopped all the time “when he gets the munchies after getting stoned”. A charmer!

Thank God it eventually ended, and thank God we both knew we were an awful match. Lesson learned: if he seems too good to be true, he is. He’s lying about something! Lesson part deux: don’t let him pick you up for date #1. EVER! Not safe, and if he *isn’t* a total pyscho, you’ll just me miserable and stuck for a few hours.

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Too good to be true

February 14th, 2006

Don’t you love it when a post writes itself?

A few days ago a friend (yes, a male friend) asked me how I felt about the upcoming “Hallmark Holiday.” I told him that my intention was to ignore it–and I advised him to do likewise.

All I wanted from Valentine’s Day this year was to get some chocolate on sale at CVS. Instead, I got the most spectacularly, unintentionally hilarious email ever.

(I also got a lovely Valentine’s Day greeting from a fella and to eat chocolate with some co-workers–someone brought in a chocolate fountain!)

Do you all remember the fellow I was emailing with from CraigsList a couple of weeks ago? I’d put an ad up looking for a co-ed softball team. Chad responded and we carried on a lively email conversation. It abruptly ended when I questioned a comment he made about kissing. Read the whole thing here and then come back for PART TWO!!!

Yes, Chad has given me the best Valentine’s Day present a blogger could hope for: lovely, precious, funny, blog fodder. Chad, sweetheart, you rock! You made my day. In fact, I think I love you.

This afternoon, I received this message from Chad:

i guess you lost interest

Damn. I couldn’t believe it. Almost two weeks to the day since his last email. What is he thinking? I must investigate.

I responded:
Chad–

What a surprise to hear from you after…how long? Two weeks?

I don’t know if you recall, but this was the last email I sent to you:
>That “kissing” comment bugs me. I’m not sure what you think is going on here.

It was in response to the message you sent:
> maybe a few drinks…a nice dinner…some nice kissing

Since I didn’t hear from you again, I figured we were not looking for the same thing. Was I wrong?

Hope you are well.

~jamy

Chad responded:
sorry-i guess a nice kiss i thought was harmless…sorry.

One wonders if his first language is English, but I spoke to him on the phone and it definitely is. Why are his incredibly short sentences so tortured?

Jamy:
Chad,

Of course a kiss is harmless. But that level of flirting is a little beyond my comfort level. If we were to meet, I’d like it to be with no expectations–beyond friendly ones. Does that make sense?

~jamy

Chad:
sure it does, sorry. but a kiss will be sweet if we do.

I am a bad person because I was rather delighted that he kept going on this way. Normally I would be frustrated and annoyed–instead, I felt like, “Bring it on, buddy! The worse you are, the better it is for me.” Bad Jamy.

Jamy:
Chad, I don’t know what to say.

I tell you that talking about kissing makes me uncomfortable–then you keep talking about it. It feels like you don’t respect my boundaries.

~jamy

Chad (sent before the response above):
are you open to a b/f?

Jamy:
Sure. I am constantly reviewing applicants.

And that, my friends, is the end!

Can we send some love to Chad for making a big, fat fool of himself and providing me we with the best Valentine’s Day post ever?

Grateful for: silly CL boys.

Drop me a line.

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