papi's got jokes

Papi: {in Spanish} hi! {in Hebrew} how are you?
Me: {in Spanish} jaja {in Hebrew using English/Spanish letters} good {in Spanish} and you?
Papi: {in Hebrew} good
Me: {in Spanish} haha what, is it time for Hebrew classes or what?
Papi: {in Spanish} no, I'm just playing {in emoji} turtle

see, EVEN PAPI KNOWS HE IS A TURTLE.

memories

it's always a little hard being home. You probably already know that I didn't have the best childhood (teenage-hood?). It wasn't all bad, of course. Some things were lovely. But some experiences, well, I am amazed every single day that I managed to get past them.

it's been easier since we moved out of our old house. I think my mother lives there now. I have no idea; I haven't talked to her in a year and a half. But that house had bad vibes.

there's the beach, of course. Which is really unparalleled. And seeing Justin Bobby again (although he reminds me of just how much I miss Simba, which breaks my heart a little bit. Eleven days til I see him again).

I don't have very many friends left here. My last year of high school wasn't the best. And in any case, I went to an international school, so most of my friends do not live here anymore, anyway.

I've been writing a lot, which is good. I found a novel I wrote when I was 12 -- I've been looking for it for years. I read the first few chapters. It wasn't that bad for a 12-year-old, actually. Maybe that means someday I'll be a decent writer.

I've also been reading a lot. Other people's books, I mean.

today I decided to create a bulletin board of happy memories. Which was a nice process, but it was really exhausting, too. Because in order to find the good stuff, I had to scroll through the ugly messes too, and it made me a little sad. If I'm being honest.

I asked my dad over dinner if he stole all the albums from when we were little, or if my mother simply didn't want them. She didn't want them. The only album she wanted, according to her lawyer, was the one of her childhood. Not ours. That made me sad, even though I don't really think much about her anymore.

when I was around three years old, my dad's company sent its employees on a cruise ship from Israel to Turkey and Rhodes, Greece. My sister didn't go, because she was basically still a newborn. So I was looking at those albums. And me and my mom -- well, I don't know, she looks so happy. She has this spark that she lost in later photographs. And it really makes me wonder.

I know my father is not exactly an unbiased source, but he's the only one I have. I don't really remember being three. So I asked him, was she happy with me then? Did she love me?

he said she was already overwhelmed. Very quickly she realized being a mother didn't suit her. He said I'd knock on his door at night, at ages two and three, asking him to read me a book, please, because Mom fell asleep before she even started.

I guess there's no point to this post, except that, I don't know, memories are hard for me sometimes. Photos make me wonder: did I do something to make her dislike me along the way? How come she seemed that much happier with me when I was three years old?

"because you were like a little doll that she could play with. She could still control you, make you the way she wanted."

I hope my dad is right, because otherwise, how is it possible that I messed up so badly that almost two years ago, I ended up losing my mother completely?

oh, the places you'll go

so, obviously I've fallen off the blogging bandwagon lately. I'd blame it on "the holidays," but the truth is that I've been obsessively writing and writing and writing this silly "novel" of mine, because when I love doing something, well, I love doing it. Nonstop.

anyway, I am currently at the airport, much too sleepy (despite being heavily caffeinated, which truthfully in my case means zilch because coffee for some strange reason puts me to sleep) to novel-write, and I am thinking about this conversation that I had with my boyfriend a few days ago. I'm so fortunate to have been born into a family that considers travel so important, a priority, even, and sometimes I don't appreciate all the places I've been. Which is dumb, because I certainly should. One time, my uncle in France told us that if there is one thing worth spending money on, it is travel. I agree wholeheartedly.

via

so far in my (relatively short) life, I've been to: the United States, Costa Rica, Israel, Turkey, Greece, the Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland, Germany, the Netherlands, Austria, Switzerland, England, Spain, France, Mexico, Guatemala, Panama, Cuba, the Bahamas, and Nicaragua, I think (do an emergency landing in Jamaica and reaching my hand into Lebanon count?). But there's so many places I'd still love to visit! Especially: Russia (despite the fact that I'm incredibly bitter about the new anti-US adoption law, considering I've been wanting to adopt a Russian child for, oh, I don't know, a good ten years), Australia, New Zealand, Ireland, Morocco, Italy, Romania, Egypt (I mean, if shit ever calms down), India, and South Africa, to name a few.

basically, I want to travel the world. Because experiences mean more than material things, wouldn't you agree?

in other news, since I've been "gone," I've been thinking about: how the idea of arming schoolteachers is the dumbest, saddest, and most dangerous thing I've ever heard in my life (also: how it seems like an absolute no-brainer that there needs to be some serious gun control. This is coming from someone whose family was personally affected years ago in a civilian gun-related incident); how I need to study for the GREs and look into MFA programs I'd be interested in; how I am excited about the new direction my life is going in; how I still do not understand what the fiscal cliff means (I'm kind of stupid); how I am avoiding thinking about how much I miss Simba because I might cry; how much I hate airports and New York City (sorry, I'm not sorry).

I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/whatever else you might celebrate!

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.

deep thoughts on a night of drinking

when I first began my "recovery" (and I use this term loosely as I was so reluctant) from anorexia as a senior in high school, I followed a terribly strict meal plan, complete with measurements and exact portions (good God, who has the time to measure vegetables!?). I ate the same three meals and two snacks day in and day out. While I was entrenched in my eating disorder, I became a hermit of sorts, locking myself up in the upstairs room, reading pro-ana websites (freedom of speech my ass -- those websites are dangerous and should be illegal) and counting calories. As part of my recovery, I was encouraged to go out with friends, just like I used to before my illness completely took over my life.

so one day, I did.

I was terrified. I promised myself I wouldn't drink -- calories! I packed my dinner (chicken, vegetables, brown rice), even though we were headed to a fair where there would surely be delicious (albeit fatty) options.

my friends (to be honest, at that point I had drifted too far apart from everyone to really consider them close friends) and I rented a "party bus" (keep in mind I grew up in Costa Rica, so this scenario is entirely plausible -- I was also of legal age there) and the drinking started right away.

it is kind of impossible to resist a drink when you've got 20 rowdy teenagers urging you on (peer pressure at its finest, no?), especially when you are too ashamed to admit to the real reason you aren't drinking: you're freaking terrified to get fat. Liquid calories! Empty calories!

so I did what I thought I "had" to do, my "only choice."

I flushed my dinner down the toilet. That way, I could make up for any (or most) calories I consumed when drinking (never mind the fact that drinking on an empty stomach is never a good idea).

when I got home, my dad asked me, "Did you eat dinner?" and I said, completely straight-faced, "Yeah, obviously."

an eating disorder is an expert liar.

I think back to this day and I cringe a little.

so what was that about? The point of this is not to give anyone any ideas (of course not), or to let everyone know what a sad life I lived back then. Nope. The point of this is to remind myself of how lucky and glad I am that I am finally able to let go, have a drink or two or three, and maybe even order a pizza on the side -- you know those drunk munchies are vicious.

I had a fabulous time last night with my boyfriend and his friends here in Connecticut. So what if I feel like crap this morning? I'll only be 21 once (reincarnation aside, obviously).

how things have changed.

fuerza, costa rica

today hasn't been the best day for me for many reasons (which I suppose I will elaborate on later, when I am ready), one of them being the news of a 7.6 earthquake hitting Costa Rica this morning. I grew up in Costa Rica, and for a long time, I thought I hated it, but it turns out, I only hated the abusive situation I was in. Over the past two years, I've finally learned to love and take pride in the country.

it really does hurt my heart to hear of news like this, but I am thankful that all my friends and family are okay.