very scientific evidence that it is hanukkah

on the first night of Hanukkah, Crohn's disease came back with a vengeance to remind me that I am, indeed, Jewish (oh HEY, before anyone gets offended, a lot of Jews have Crohn's, okay? It's a thing).

(okay, really it's my fault for eating green beans)

ANYWAY, hag sameach slash happy Hanukkah to those who celebrate, and yes, I am well aware that the above is not a Hanukkah picture; however, we used Hanukkah candles on my roommate's birthday cake last year (because we were too dumb to remember to buy birthday candles, or something. We did buy her a ceramic pig named Chauncy), so I'm hoping this will do.

(let's just say Jessica's birthday cake this year was not quite as holy)

what's in a name?

"Debbie! Wow, that is such a pretty name," the curly-haired Starbucks barista said as she took my order.

no one has ever said that about my name before.

I couldn't take the compliment. I just couldn't. I hate my name. I always have (sorry, Debbie. You know I love you. We've talked about this. The name, you know).

for one thing, it's ridiculously old-fashioned. Other than the Debbie linked to above, I do not know any fellow Debbies in their 20s. I know plenty of nurse Debbies. And cafeteria lady Debbies. And while they are all (mostly) lovely people, they are in their 40s, 50s, 60s. So being a 21-year-old Debbie just feels plain...out of place.

I feel that, with my background, I am entitled to a cooler name...you know, something more ethnic. Or whatever. But maybe I'm just a brat.

I always thought the name Debbie belonged to an early '80s high school cheerleader. One with purple mascara and a really dreadful perm. Preferably with a mullet.

and then there's high school, when all the awkward, oh-hello-my-voice-is-cracking-and-I'm-growing-an-ugly-mustache-just-because-I'm-finally-hitting-PUBERTY boys concluded that old pornos were, like, the best thing since bra straps, or something.

"oh hey, Debbie! Debbie does Dallas!" they'd yell down the hallway and explode in a fit of ridiculous guffaws. And I was like, what? So one day I enlisted the help of my trusty old friend, Google, and then it was, like, OH. I see.

don't even get me started on Little Debbies. Yeah, I'm short. No, I don't like Little Debbies, even though, hardy-har-har, my name is Debbie and I am little.

and "Debbie downer"? Please. It's as if I was never even given a chance (Negative Nancy, I feel your pain).

I always felt bad admitting to my intense dislike for my name for fear of upsetting my dad (my mom, not so much. She's done enough harm for me to consider sparing her feelings on the matter). But then, a year or so ago, my dad told me that he didn't really have a say in my name. "I wanted something more Israeli," he said.

FIGURES.

{can we pause for a second to discuss the fact that my sister, Ariela, got the pretty name? What is that nonsense about? Ariela. Ugh, such a beautiful name. And Debbie? Blergh}

let me explain my life story. Or, like, my pre-life story. I was born in February of 1991. During the Gulf War. When Saddam Hussein thought it might be fun and games to shoot Scud missiles Israel's way, unprovoked.

anyway. My parents lived in Haifa at the time, spending many a night in a bomb shelter with gas masks strapped to their faces (there was a fear of biochemical warfare, or something. I don't know. I need to brush up on my history). My mother was pregnant. Her father, a Polish Holocaust survivor living in Costa Rica, freaked out. So my mother flew to him, at least until things settled down in Israel.

my father had just been called on reserve duty, in case Israel decided to retaliate (it didn't).

I was born early, after my mother's water broke at a Chinese restaurant.

my mother's family called my father in Israel. "You have a daughter, and her name is Debbie."

and that was that. Cute turtle that he is (my dad is a turtle. I promise), he was too thrilled to have a child to even care what my name was.

so that makes me feel better. Because at least my horrific name is not exactly my dad's fault.

sometimes people ask me why I don't go by Hannah, which is my actual first name. I like Hannah better, after all. Well, nobody has ever called me Hannah. My parents always called me Debbie. And so if you were to go, "Hey, Hannah!" I'd be like, who are you even talking to? A ghost?

which is why I don't think I would ever change my name, whether it is to Hannah or anything else. How does one get used to a new name, anyway?

did anyone seriously just make it through this word vomit of a post?

p.s. NO OFFENSE IF YOUR NAME IS DEBBIE. Promise. I'm sure you're really nice.

lessons learned, hospital edition

someday in the far and distant future, I will be older and wiser (debatable), and I will gather my grandchildren around and tell them stories about my youth, always with the intent to teach them a valuable life lesson. The following is a list of important wisdom I gathered the last couple of days while at the hospital. Hopefully it will come in handy to one of you, and if not, well, you get to laugh at my stupidity, so there's that.

{this is me being sad, by the way}

never ever ever ever (get back together...just kidding; I can't stand Taylor Swift) take a drug that was not prescribed to you. Even if you are a life-long insomniac desperate for some sleep. Don't do it. It might have a deadly interaction with another one of your (prescribed) drugs and give you a seizure (or maybe that shit just happens to me).

while scared and frustrated and lonely at the hospital, hold on to every compliment you receive for dear life:
"ooh, I like your tattoo! Is it a jellyfish?" (No, no it's not. It's a hamsa. Funnily enough, my friend Alicia asked me if it was an elephant the other day. I didn't mind that one so much because I love elephants)
"you were so good in the MRI machine!" (Thanks, I've had a lot of practice)
"wow, you're 21 and a senior in college? You must be doing something right!" (or not, because I ended up here)

keeping things vague so that your father does not freak out is a good way to make him freak out.

if you are having the worst headache of your life, there's a good chance it's not just a headache. Do not ignore it.

try not to feel too ripped off when you are not given morphine like you were the last time you stayed overnight at a hospital (hey, I've only had it twice - at the hospital, yes - but that shit is like walking on clouds, so don't judge me too much). Don't ask for morphine, because then the nurses are really going to think you're a drug addict.

if you think riding in an ambulance might be cool (like I did), you're wrong. It's bumpy.

when the ambulance EMT asks you who the president of the United States is, say Obama, because you are sick, not stupid. When he asks you if he is on his first or second term realize that it is a trick question and say first, because again, you are sick, not stupid.

yo, ambulances are really expensive. If your university offers a free one, take it. If you are not a university student, I'm sorry, but you're screwed (see, it's good to go to college).

next time you think about getting a new piercing, think of how much of a bitch it's going to be to try to take it out if you ever need an MRI (yeah, my nose piercing closed, yet again, and my roommate and I had to pull a Parent Trap to re-pierce it...)

and speaking of, when they tell you you do not need to remove your piercings for the CAT scan of your brain, do not think you're off the hook just yet. They'll want an MRI later; you just wait and see.

don't hold your pee for over 12 hours because you are too lazy to walk to the bathroom with an IV in (I will be getting a UTI in 3, 2, 1...)

wonder why in the world the guy in the bed next to you is just so jolly about being in the hospital. Mentally punch him in the face.

crying to your father on the phone about wanting to go home will not make anyone discharge you.

texting your roommate, your boyfriend, your sister, and everyone's mother about how much you want to go home will not make anyone discharge you.

earplugs inside an MRI machine are useless. To pass the time, pretend you are at a Skrillex concert. Or, if you are not one for the Skrillex, time travel back to 2000 and pretend you are trying to connect to dial-up internet.

when you finally get hungry after not eating for an entire day, realize that you don't have to eat the sad hospital turkey sandwich and can order pizza like the guy in the bed next to you. Get angry that you didn't order Chipotle, and then remember that Chipotle doesn't deliver. Get even angrier.

always carry a phone charger with you, lest you end up in the hospital with a dead phone and no other form of entertainment.

wonder who projectile vomited onto the ceiling right over your bed, creating that lovely shade of putrid yellow.

try not to worry too much about missing class and work, your professors and boss will understand. Right?

trying to sleep at a hospital is a joke.

and on that note, I'm off to take a nap.

on doing stuff

one thing that I've noticed recently is that I don't do a lot of things. I mean, yeah, I write plenty (although most of it is absolute crap), and I try to run five times a week, and I play with Simba and feed him and walk him around the block, and I go to class, and I work, and I hang out with my best friends, and sometimes I visit my boyfriend or he visits me, and every once in a while I'll have a glass of wine, but I just never do anything...out of the ordinary? Especially fun?

that's not to say I don't have any hobbies, because I do! But, how often can you travel the world? Ski season only lasts so long, and my body is pretty broken (read: I can't do gymnastics much anymore, either). I love to read, but sometimes reading school textbooks for hours on end sucks the joy out of it for me, and like I said, writing is probably my favorite thing in the world (other than Simba, when he's not gassy), but it's quite the solitary activity...and nothing out of the ordinary.

this past weekend, in the wake of Sandy (which, by the way, has had me worried sick over some people in the more affected areas, including this lovely girl right here), my boyfriend, his sister, and I went to the Kevin Hart comedy show in Albany, and it was freaking hilarious.

I hadn't laughed that hard in a while.

{...I want to go to a Russell Peters show so bad. I bet I'd laugh even harder}

I'm telling you, by the end of the night, I couldn't talk -- my cheeks hurt.

I loved it.

{and then we headed to TGI Friday's, where I got wasted off a quarter of a margarita and a shot of Bailey's irish cream...}

the last time I did something fun, out of the ordinary like that? This past May, when I went to the Kanye and Jay-Z concert in London.

that's just not okay (I mean, that it's been that long, not that I went to the concert, because that was a lot of fun, too).

I need to do fun stuff like that more often. I really do. I think it keeps me on my toes, so to speak. My life seems less mundane -- you know, it's good to have things to look forward to. Big things. And little things. Even hiking or a road trip. Just breaking out of the monotony...man, it's good for the soul.

p.s. if you so wish, please text REDCROSS to 90999 to donate $10 to help hurricane Sandy victims.