Who Am I?

Good question, if I may say so myself.

It's been a week full of learning, and we still have the other half of it to go.
I decided to learn as much as I can about SEO (Search Engine Optimization), copy writing and social media, so I took some webinars, ordered some books and I'm immersing myself in this mess-of-knowledge, trying to find my Element, like sir Ken Robinson said.
With all these Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn registration forms, with job interviews and discussing me with myself behind my back, I found out some definitions are just empty shells: some 'old skins' and some are just 'for others' but don't really define ME.

So here it is, the real (yet peculiar) definitions I came up with. They fit me best, for now.

• I'm a bee. I like socializing, I'm the buffet type, I start here, than go there, or maybe that way is better... hey I'm interested in that too... a buzzing bee. With all these words stuck in one phrase you might have mistaken me for a disguised ADD, but I'm not. As bees are, I'm very organized, my hive is spotless (most days) and my file cabinet (or e-files) would have been the envy of the neighborhood, had they known or had access to it. In my family I'm The Queen Bee, of course.
• I'm a Personality Dula. I know, sounds a bit pretentious, but I am. I help people become who they are in their core. They do the searching and hard work, of course, I just stand aside and suggest, enable, facilitate, mostly soul working. I get to know people and somehow it dawns on me who they really are... most times.
• I'm a Professional Meidale. Meidale is a Yiddish word meaning 'people's person', especially older people. I was the classic 7 going on 70 and still can converse with anyone about anything as I like many different things, see Bee above.

Who are you? No, not the outside you, who are you really?

Move it Move it Move it

It's Tuesday, and Tuesday is my  Train With The Enemy day. Our trainer is a former KGB instructor, I'm sure of it. And I'm a communist wannabe with capitalistic aspirations to be a buffed up spy movie star. Too bad we left California.

Training starts with a combination techno/pop music so quick you can jog right through this class. That is, if you're a high power spy in training. Our friendly KGB instructor has abs of steel,  killer behind and perfectly sculpted arm muscles that are not too masculine, yet perfectly defined. She is wearing  a 'grandpa tank top' and pumping her arms as I pray for help from the Divine.

Our KGB trainer has this eastern European accent, which made me mistake her for the Elderly Yiddish Training Instructor who trained my great aunt Bluma and her 70+ girlfriends in the park.

But no, our trainer is, for sure, no doubt about it, a former KGB personal.
SHTAND SHTREIGHT she yells, and we all grow an inch. My abs are trembling with fear as I SHTRETCH TWO THREE and I'm dreaming of being, maybe, one day, UP TWO THREE Jennifer Garner in some early Alias version.

Indeed I should. Because at the rate we MOVE IT MOVE IT, schlepping body bars and weights atop the big circus balls, using our abs and our breathes, our muscles and strength, I should have been Rocky Balboa by now, or at least Rockova Shtrongova.

Add Some

Monday is my spinning class day. If I start the week with spinning, I have an energized week. Everything is possible after I've survived Monday's spinning.

It starts in the dark. The music is uplifting and loud. So uplifting and so loud my brain stops spinning for a while so my body is left to its own device. As soon as brain attempts to kick in, the fumes of my fellow spinners' efforts take it by surprise, shutting it off completely. Just imagine, a whole hour without brain...

Commo' Commo', our relentless teacher, energizes the group: "COMO' COMO'" she shouts (hence the name) "GIVE IT ALL YOU GOT" I feel my gut spinning too. "ADD SOME" she instructs, "ZONE 4, YOU'RE IN ZONE 4" which means I'm breathless, a quick minute and I'll be spinning to my first and only heart attack.

The long legged thin thighs no stomach girlfriend just next bike is moving in all directions, her long skinny legs aim to fly on their own accord, for sure she just added some, her top-of-the-head pony tail becomes alive and is happily chirping around, synchronizing with the surround sound. She moves to the left, moves to the right, and fights the fat, fight fight fight!

I should do that too, brain attempts to interfere and get me to add some, but the loud music repeats: 'DON'T LET ME GO' and I think of the cookies and cream, the mocha of my dreams, let those thoughts go and spin harder, adding some resistance. If you love someone, set them free, right?

Como' Como' lifts my spirit and gives it one last spin, get up, stay down, "RIDE IT LIKE YOU STOLE IT!"

I've never stole a bike, I was thin back than, didn't need any spining...

Snow, Reading and Videotapes (DVD's, actually)

It's snowing again. Beautifully falling, decorating the trees like a postcard from somewhere far away. My princess calls it 'illustrated': "look at that illustrated stop sign, mommy, look at that illustrated tree!".
She's reading now, spelling the world around her. A simple car ride becomes a spelling bee contest: "what does N-A-I-L-S mean? what does V-E-R-I-Z-O-N spell? Don't look mommy, let me ask you!" Prince Reader and I can't look and are not aloud to say the word before she's done spelling. It's a whole new world out there, and we are about to spell our way through it!

Talking about reading, we watched Freedom Writers together and my son got the book out of the library. The book consist of the actual diaries of the kids the story/movie is based on.
Prince Reader reads fast. 30 pages into the book he asked himself, and us, whether it's appropriate for him. We read a random page, swallowed hard and answered that question to ourselves: no!
Both of us oppose books censorship so we agreed to discuss it with him, main message to be: 'It's not appropriate for you at this age, but if you want to read it you may. The diaries were written in a certain context, by kids with a very different life reality than yours. We'd like to keep discussing any issues that might bother you with this book. Let us know how it progresses'.

Hubby took the book and was racing through it to see what's up next. Seeing that some interesting issues rose by page 45, he discussed it with our charming reader, who, by that time, put the book aside. Of course the discussion got him reading again, and of course he read it faster than both of us so this morning he showed hubby the following sentence on page 150:
"As his pe***s twirled in my mouth, thoughts of the popcorn he promised me ran through my mind"

Yikes.

Now what do we do? How do you explain to your innocent child that such disgusting abusers exist? How do you keep sex and love connected in a good loving way, when reading about these kinds of relationships? and why now? Why does it have to be out there at such young age?
Yes, I know, you might ask: why did you let him read it in the first place?
I have two answers for you:

1. We are a family of readers, this is our world's reality.
2. We have to keep communication open, discuss our way of seeing the world, relationships, love and sex. We can't prevent our kids from reading so to never discuss the subject.

I chickened out. Put it on hubby's bill of education - you raised it, now you explain it.

What would you do? And who would you do it with? (just kidding, couldn't resist)

From OC to NJ

We recently moved. Left sunny California, glitzy OC, to join the lonely lines of people waiting for the bus to New York city. You see them rain or shine, standing at various odd places, waiting for the bus. The metal Messiah comes in various colors, often with the air condition off (let them suffer, those Jersey tax payers) and we all sing together:

Take me out to New York man,
Take me out with the crowd;
Buy me some bagels and real good cake,
I don't care if I never get back.

Don't you love those Nuts4Nuts carts?

The New Jerseians dress different when they go to the big city. High hills, Schick clothes, stylish shoes, the good bag, suits. Here in Small Towne it's flip flops and mom's clothes. No exciting fashion statements at the Towne plaza. No hills for Kmart.

New Jersians are not terribly fond or proud of themselves. Everyone was fast to pay their condolences when we said we came here to STAY. "So you are not going back?" they would say, confused, as if a vacation here would be a blast....

The New Yorkers were especially blunt: "I'm so terribly sorry for you" said the clerk at the hotel where we stayed until our new home in the prairie was ready. New Yorkers sarcasm, I thought. But no. It's true. She was sorry for us, and I found it hard to digest after seeing what shoe boxes people are willing to live in for the privilege of being called a 'New Yorker'.

It's a quiet, subdued sleepers town. We are the cozy side of miss neurotica city.

So cheers for the sleepers,

Jersey girl?