stupid things people said to me this past weekend

my sister: "Happy happy birthday! 22! You can't shop at Forever 21 anymore."

my dad: "you're turning two ducks."
me: "what the hell are you talking about?"
my dad: "two ducks. Twos look like ducks. You're no longer a duck and a stick."
me: "there is nothing about twos that looks like a duck."
(this went on for several hours actually. Seriously, twos don't look like ducks. I'm not sure what this man is smoking exactly but when I find out I'll be sure to let you know)

me: "ugh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."
my dad: "and all of the heavenly court."

my friend, at a sushi restaurant (which my other friend calls "the conveyor belt sushi restaurant"): "I'd like a shrimp roll six please."
my boyfriend: "you're not supposed to say the six part..."

my friend: "Simba's my nephew. Did you know Simba's my nephew? He's a cat."
everyone: "Simba's not a cat."
my friend: "he is a cat!"
everyone: "you're so drunk."
my friend: "that's the funny part, you guys think I'm drunk but I'm actually not."

p.s. my right wrist is famous! Hopefully someday I manage to make my face famous too (it is my life goal to have a Wikipedia entry written about me, you know) but for now my wrist will do.

thank you, zoe

here's a little story for you.

when I was little I wanted to be a writer. I mean at one point I wanted to be a gymnastics coach but I think that's just because I liked practicing with my sister and bossing her around. But anyway I wanted to be a writer. It all started with J.K. Rowling, really. I love that woman. I'm actually kind of sad I didn't come up with Harry Potter myself, but that's another story for another day.

so I wanted to be a writer and I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I wrote all kinds of stories, set in all kinds of places, like Hogwarts because back then I didn't understand what copyright meant (I was young, sorry). I even finished one novel once when I was 12. I only ever showed my sister the stuff I wrote and she said she liked it but obviously I forced her to say that, so who really knows.

then some really bad stuff happened when I was 14 and I lost every last bit of confidence I had, which wasn't much in the first place. So I stopped writing.

in high school I stressed about the future way sooner than I should've. I didn't know what I could be now that I thought I'd never be good enough to be a writer. At one point I thought of studying psychology and becoming a therapist but then I realized I couldn't even deal with my own damn problems (and there were plenty, let me tell you) so really I had no time or patience for anyone else's (but that's not true because I think I'm a pretty decent listener).

then I joined the high school newspaper and decided I could be a journalist because I'd still be writing, which is my favorite thing to do ever ever ever, even though it was real stories, not stories I made up in my head. But it didn't matter because writing real stories was fine too. Also, I was deluded and thought being a journalist would be a more, you know, "stable" job than being a "novelist." Clearly I wasn't paying attention because the internet happened and now no one really cares about magazines and newspapers anymore. Oh and also the economy jumped off a bridge and all that. So getting a job as a journalist wouldn't be that easy or anything.

but whatever. I came to college and took my journalism classes and learned how to write better articles. Then this past summer I had an early quarter-life crisis (I say early because I'm not even a quarter of a century old yet) and it was just like, is this all I have to look forward to in my life?

and my dad whispered, "Novels. Your real passion was writing novels."

I was all like nah nah nah nah because nothing sounds scarier than trying to become a book writer, especially when you just don't think you're good enough (I always think my sister is so brave for following her dreams of becoming an artist or a yoga instructor or whatever she's up to these days. But then again she says she's a Jew-Buddhist so it's not like this is her last chance at life. So if she messes this one up real bad she'll have plenty of other incarnations to make up for it, right?).

but my dad kept insisting.

so I tried. And good God my stuff was so terrible. I got really discouraged.

but then Zoe said to me that just like anything I needed to get back into practice. Keep writing fiction. Keep trying.

and by some miracle I listened (I'm usually really stubborn, ask my boyfriend) and kept practicing even though I wrote some crap that almost made me cry, it was so bad. I even signed up for a fiction writing class this semester.

and I wrote and wrote and wrote every single day.

this week I even submitted a few short stories to writing contests. Which I won't win. Because unlike Alyssa I never win anything (obviously I secretly hate her). But hey.

anyway, I can sort of half get behind my writing now. I kind of like it, almost? I'm no Kurt Vonnegut, obviously. And I never will be.

but maybe there's something to following this crazy dream after all.

or at least I hope there is.

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?

a message to my dad:

we love you!
lo queremos mucho!
!אנחנו אוהבות אותך

love,

Debbie & Ariela

a list, because i haven't blogged in forever

forever being, you know, nine days.

{1} like so many around me, I'm absolutely devastated about the Sandy Hook shooting last week. I cannot think of anything sadder or more gut wrenching. This needs to stop. Gun control, now (I mean, how is it that you are not psychiatrically evaluated before purchasing a gun?). Better mental healthcare, now.

I'm not going to lie -- as a foreigner, "the right to bear arms" sounds straight up stupid to me. But hey! That's just me. What do I know?

anyway -- here's how to help.

{2} I'm in Colorado at the moment, and I swear to you I have never smelled so much weed just by walking down the street. More power to them, I guess.

{3} my throat is killing me, and I'm pretty peeved about it. I don't want to feel too sick to ski tomorrow (major #firstworldproblem, I know, but sports-wise, to me, it goes: (1) gymnastics, (2) skiing, (3) running).

{4} my sister pointed out to me today how ironic it is that she is dating a German and I am dating an Arab. I bet we're a disappointment to Jews worldwide.

HEY, why can't everyone just love each other? WHY? If we can do it, so can everybody else, I'd say.

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people living for today

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people living life in peace

You, you may say 
I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one
I hope some day you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people sharing all the world

You, you may say 
I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one
I hope some day you'll join us
And the world will live as one -- John Lennon*

{5} you know how you hear of how the Harry Potter series came about to J.K. Rowling, randomly while on a train and in such obsessive detail? I think I may just have experienced the same thing (not that I could ever come up with something as brilliant as Harry Potter, but you know). I've been working on a novel for months now, but this new idea came to me so suddenly and unexpectedly that I've spent the past two days writing and researching feverishly, nearly completing my first chapter and creating an outline for the whole thing. I even have a name for it! Maybe this will be the one for me? I really do hope so! It's historical fiction, also, which is absolutely my favorite genre.

seriously guys? I'd love to be a writer more than anything in the world.

{6} I really, really love my family. My family being, you know, my sister (she is looking so gorgeous these days!) and my dad. And my boyfriend, Mike, because at this point I really do consider him family.

{7} yesterday a young girl (10, maybe?) asked me if my dad and I were married. UM. No. Does he look young or do I look old?

{8} I've taken to calling my dad Shlomi, because that was his nickname when he was in the Israeli army, and I think it's cute.

{9} I'm forgetting my Spanish. And my Hebrew. It's serious. I mean, I always thought the coolest thing about me is that I am trilingual.

{10} I miss Simba so much I can't even bear to think about him right now. I hope he's having a blast at his doggie hotel and that I am worrying over nothing.

*in case anyone is interested, Simba's middle name is Lennon.

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.

a better place

disclaimer: I'm going to sound like a huge self-congratulating asshole in this post. I am not. I have so many flaws. I dislike so many things about myself. I am terrible at communicating, and I can snap and say dreadful, terrible things. I don't know how to forgive. I especially don't know how to forgive myself. I am insecure and needy, and although I am making progress, I treat myself horribly. Really horribly. And sometimes I drag others down with me.

John Lennon Wall; Prague, summer 2007

I've always been such an idealist, probably to the point of idiocy. I mean, I know that some of my more cynical friends roll their eyes at me, and I understand that; truly, I do. I know the world will never be a perfect place. I know it is not so easy to eradicate human suffering with the snap of your fingers. I get that. But at the risk of sounding like a "humble brag," I am desperate to do what I can. I've asked to be an organ donor on my driver's license, even though my friends tell me my organs might only be used for teaching purposes, or, even worse, that doctors would not try everything in their power to save me if one of my organs could be useful to someone else. But that's okay. I think that's a chance I'm willing to take.

I cried once when I was told I wasn't eligible to donate blood.

one of my biggest goals in life is to adopt a child in need. For now, though, I'm sponsoring a child in India, because pocket change for me is life changing cash for her, and that's the least I can do, really.

I am so proud of my dad, because he's been in the clean energy business (i.e. windmills) since before clean energy was really a "thing." A thing that anyone worried about, at least.

last year I volunteered at my university's rape crisis center, and although as a victim of sexual abuse it was honestly more than I could bear, I'm at least happy I did my part.

yesterday, I donated (small amounts, but whatever I could) to two causes that are important to me (this and this).

I just want to help.

the point of this post is not to say that I am some saint, because, again, I am not (I mean, just yesterday, I said some horrific things to my roommate in a moment of anger and irrationality and grief. I can't believe those words even came out of my mouth, and I hate myself for that.) The point is that lately, I've been seen so much ugly in the world, and it just crushes me, because that is not the world I know. Those are not the people I know. I've always thought humanity was, in its own flawed way, beautiful. And a part of me still hopes it is. The fact that I could be wrong terrifies me.

I want the world to be a better place, one without suffering and abuse and war and genocide and terrorism and cruelty in any way. I want people to respect and embrace each others' differences. I don't know why, throughout the history of the world, we've found this so hard. I truly don't know why.

to me, it seems like such a simple concept.

{thanks for maybe reading my word vomit}

what am i here for?

I'm no god (obviously), but I am pretty sure I was put in this world for two reasons:

{1} to be happy
{2} to help others

I had such an unhappy childhood, and I grew up in such an unstable, volatile home (and, yes, there were short flashes of happiness, like winning my first gymnastics medal, or...I'm actually having a tough time with that "or" right now, which I suppose is testament to how shitty things were), that it took me a long time to understand that not only is it okay to be happy, but it is perfectly acceptable to aspire to be happy, to look at that state of being as both a journey and a long-term goal.

for a long time, I thought I had to be this "persona," the tortured writer, the fuck up, the girl with the mental illness. I thought that would not only set me apart, but that it would allow me to become the best writer. And although I do believe that the most compelling writers are those that have gone through terrible, terrible things, through hell and back, I now understand that their stories are so heart-wrenching and heartwarming because, some way or another, they are trying to make it to the other side -- to better themselves (in other words, no one wants to read a never-ending sob story).

the one thing I love most about my boyfriend is that, to him, the most important thing in life is to be happy (and healthy, obviously). I admire that. And I agree with that.

***

helping others has always been so important to me. Through my writing, I've always hoped to tell the stories of those that have gone on unheard, and (I say this without a self-congratulatory pat on the back, thank you very much) I've tackled some difficult subjects in my writing: mental illness, disability, abuse, war, poverty. I want others to read my writing, not necessarily because I think I am a good writer, but because it's a skill that I have and a skill I can use to help, even in the smallest ways.

lately, I've been feeling that I should volunteer more. I used to work for my school's rape crisis center, and that was a rewarding experience because having gone through the horrors of sexual assault myself, I feel so strongly about this issue. But I know I could still do more. 

I want to adopt a child in need someday. 

the people that I love most are those that can be entirely selfless. I've seen some great acts of compassion lately, with all the destruction and terror surrounding the hurricane, and it honestly warms my heart that people can come together in times of pain. Even if it's just by doing little things -- such as Alyssa's charge station in Hoboken, or the man in Port Authority that convinced a bus driver headed to Toronto to make a pit stop in Syracuse to drop off a classmate of mine so that she could escape Sandy in time. To me, that speaks volumes about character. I aspire to be like these people. 

my dad has been involved in the business of clean, renewable energy for over 10 years now, and I am so proud of him, knowing that what he is doing for a living will help all of humanity in years and years to come. 

I want to leave a mark someday. A good one. I want to be happy, and I want to help.

that's what I'm here for. 

p.s. this post is brought to you by my inability to sleep without first spewing some serious word vomit.