"A dishpan and piece of scotchbrite"

Regular readers know that two of my favorite things are dishwashers and online-newspaper comments. So what better than a combination of the two! The NYT Real Estate section ran an article about how "Manhattanites" (cue the offended Queens residents) who used to rent and are now buying apartments, according to some real estate broker, consider having a dishwasher "'an inalienable right, not a privilege.'" The P word! Their privilege is showing.

The ostensible point of the article is that as the market has shifted more in buyers' favor, that which they used to put up with, they no longer have to: the dishwasher as barometer for changes in the real estate market. But the commenters, much to my delight, are not having it. It is most definitely about dishwashers:

"Dishwasher? I'm 60 yrs old and haven't ever lived in a house with anything but a dishpan and piece of scotchbrite."

Yup.

Non-dishwasher-use seems to bring out a certain pride. Or rather, two quite different versions. One is pride in being too important to cook. Too emancipated for that, if female, or too waited-on/non-domestic if male, but regardless, too much of a big deal to have ended up in the kitchen with counter-and-sink-fulls of dirty implements for which you yourself are responsible. Non-dishwasher-use suggests a life of glamor - nightly dinners out, or a job that pays enough that takeout poses no problem. (If you're not using a dishwasher because you're living off Wendy's or Lean Cuisine, you're either a master of clever self-presentation, or not announcing your non-dishwasher-use in the first place.)

The other, meanwhile, is pride in being a back-to-the-earth, artisanal-local-organic post-yuppie, someone who eschews modern appliances in order to eschew modern appliances. Why buy dry pasta if you could hand-knead your own? Why put dirty dishes into a machine that cleans them for you, when you could clean the by hand? Didn't Michael Pollan say something about emulating our great-grandmothers? If you're not eating processed foods, it stands to reason that you're not allowing a mechanical device to process your dishes, either. After you scrape your leftover bits of kale and quinoa into BPA-free containers or perhaps a compost heap, you're really going to break out the Cascade?

As for dishwashers being fancy, a question for (both) my readers: isn't New York unusual in that you have to be quite wealthy/lucky to have a dishwasher? That was my impression, at least. That it wouldn't be normal in another town for a young lawyer, say, to live without one.

Shiksoppeal*

Popular wisdom has it that Jewish men prefer non-Jewish women. Certain artists have based their entire careers on that notion. Anecdotal evidence suggests the Roth-Allen two-headed beast speaks the truth.

So why does Marcus attribute my claim that Rahm Emanuel is beau to my being a "jewy jew"? Shouldn't this make me less likely to think the politician is attractive, or does it only work that way for men?

Returning to the all-important realm of the anecdotal, Jewish women (did I mention I'm Jewish? I'm worried someone on the Internet missed this) go both ways. We (the royal 'we', or more like the court-Jew 'we') can appreciate the beauty of both Lior Askhenazi the Mossad-agent-turned-pacifist and Knut Berger the Nazi's grandson-turned-beautiful-gay-man. Or, to give a more familiar example, both Obama and his new Chief of Staff.

If Jewish women are Semiti-neutral, the fact remains that outside of observant circles, a Jewish woman will attract more gentile than Jewish men. I remember, neurotic, Roth-reading, raised-on-Allen high school senior that I was, worrying that by going to college in the Midwest, I was not going to have any dates or boyfriends, because there would be so many girls who looked like this. (Needless to say, I had the University of Chicago all wrong.) What I hadn't taken into account was that to some, we are exotic. But Jew-fetishists aside (not that the Bamber comment is fetishistic, but anyway), no such concept as a "shiksa" exists for the man who grew up Protestant in Sweden or Kansas. That a woman is, say, a natural blond is not enough to make her attractive to men whose mothers and sisters are as well.

So, is there a lesson to be drawn from all this, other than that men, Jewish or Robert Redfordian, do the asking? Discuss amongst yourselves.

*There is a Yiddish word for a male 'shiksa,' but 'shikso' is, I think, more easily understood.

"Silky-smooth"

Here's the problem: I know exactly how I want my hair. (Yes, bad movie, with this one exception.) Last time I got a haircut, the hairdresser I went to told me I would be furious if she cut my hair that short; I was disappointed, but not furious, that she left it too long. As is the usual situation, with time, the chicness situation has deteriorated. Given my tendency to wait many months between haircuts, I now have the standard high-school-girl hair. It's just-below-shoulder-length and a backpack away from someone asking me if I'm considering applying to NYU for college next time I enter a campus building. It's that conservative length, not politically conservative, but 'if I wear my hair like this no one at school will make fun of me.' Bullying is not a major concern of mine at this point of my education (nor was it ever; the conserva-haircut might be to thank), so bobs away!

So, the question: is $60 (give or take) a reasonable amount to pay for this? The alleged 'free' haircuts are always at odd times, or sound like something other than the cut I want. I'd be fine with the DIY approach if it were not the pesky problem of not being able to deal with the back of my head. What is the whole thing supposed to cost, and where am I supposed to go? A lifetime in NYC has not made this any clearer. What I'm looking for, let me just come out and say it: that article about supersecret Parisian salons got me wondering. Is there an underground network of hair awesomeness that I've yet to be let in on? That, and not the nonsense about $60, is my real question. So, snarky comments will be tolerated as usual, but the comments I actually want will direct me to hairdressers I could only dream of. (The underground networks of pedicurists, acupuncturists, and so forth I can live without.)

Tortured genius

How many times to I have to type the word "proselytizing" before spelling it correctly? Apparently this moment will never come, which I'm interpreting as proof of my superior defense system, at the ready if ever confronted with zealous missionaries. When all it is, really, is proof that I am not, contrary to what I wish while writing a final paper, a tortured genius.

Which brings us to the next question: what to make of Aspergers' pride. Any disorder whose tell-tale signs are reputed to be brilliance and the feeling of being just a bit different from everyone else is bound to attract hordes of, 'Hey, sounds like me!'-type remarks. Quotes such as, "The Web, [autism advocate] Singer said, 'is a prosthetic device for people who can’t socialize without it,'" will only encourage matters. Plenty of people not suffering from anything other than garden-variety geekiness find themselves in just the same situation. I guess the thing is, I, humanities student that I am, am having trouble wrapping my head around what it means for something to be a "spectrum disorder." Clearly in extreme cases we're talking about a severe illness, but is everyone somewhere on the spectrum, aside from this one especially perky cheerleader somewhere in Connecticut? Maybe when I finish this paper, which is to say, never, I'll finish the NYMag article and find out.

Ik ben Phoebe...

... and ik don't know any more Dutch. But I want to! I want to be able to say insulting things about fellow subway commuters to my boyfriend in a language that no one, really, no one in New York will understand. OK, not exactly, but I would like to be able to at least get by in Dutch, to at least have a brief conversation like I can in Hebrew (Ani rotza cafe vechocolad. Achshav!) when I'm next in Flanders in search of a waffle. Which is bound to happen.

So, are there Dutch classes this summer in New York? Good ones? Any at all? Also useful: driving lessons. The goal there is to be able to rent a car once I'm old enough to do so, and 25 is now looming in the not-so-distant future. My mother suggested that I have driving lessons taught in Dutch, which might not work out, but it's a thought.

Name changes

Georges Perec's last name, in Hebrew, is apparently Peretz (well, prtz), as verified by two people I talked with at the conference last weekend. I told this to my mother and she pointed out that this makes me a Mademoiselle Malc.

Research question:

Does anyone know where the joke whose punchline goes, "I used to be a hunchback," originated? Google (esp. Google Books) leads me to think it's from either Groucho Marx or Isaiah Berlin, but somehow I thought the joke preceded either of them. I need to know this, oddly enough, for my work. It would be convenient, but unlikely, if the joke came from early 19th century France.

Occidentalism

Now that I'm awake, sort of, more thoughts on the other coast.

-There are Pain Quotidiens everywhere. In the five minutes I was in/around LA, I counted four, which is nothing. They are almost exactly like the ones in New York, except with a few menu items offering health benefits beyond the usual "organic," i.e. "omega 3" and "detox." Jo insists there's nothing Belgian about the chain, but my mission to overpay for coffee at all locations worldwide remains strong.

-Also Belgium-related: the Getty is filled with room after room of Flemish Primitive (and similar) paintings. After a tragically failed attempt to see such art in Brussels (that wing was closed) then Antwerp (the show was sold out), LA was at last the place. Who knew?

-Forgot to mention this in the last post: When we first arrived at UCLA, there was a news van in front of the guesthouse where we were staying. We later learned that this was because Britney Spears' latest breakdown was at the university's hospital. Even coming from NYU, where celebrity sightings are common enough, this was surreal.

-The stereotype of LA as a New Age mecca is oh so justified. Especially Santa Monica, but the whole place, really, with the possible exceptions of in/around UCLA and Beverly Hills. And how can that many psychics stay in business? They're like LA's version of Duane Reade.

-Fred Segal=Barneys with a better logo. Correct?

-Venice=pre-gentrification St. Marks Place with a better view. Correct?

-Despite the car thing, LA feels very much more like NYC than does Paris. America must mean something, then.

Why I don't write fiction UPDATED

Since people are continuously banging down my door asking for a WWPD novel, I thought I should explain why none exists. It's not that I don't write fiction--I have, on and off, better and worse, since high school--but I am wary of inflicting it on the world. Thing is, although I don't write semi-autobiographical stories of the adventures of one Fifi Maltzman, I do tend to write about places and situations I know, and there's enough of what I know floating around in fiction today. No one cares about academic types, Manhattanites, Park Slopers, Hyde Parkers, Spence girls, or Stuyvesant nerds. A way of complimenting a work in the NYT Sunday Book Review is to exclaim, "Nothing about the Upper East Side!"

Even if against all odds I came up with something original to write about any of these worlds, any mention of Tasti-d-Lite, school uniforms, or the Six train would put anything I wrote into the pretentious-blather genre, and would leave readers (as if there would be readers) begging for "books with dragons on the cover" and stories about Kansas and Inner Mongolia within. For a time, being familiar with NYC was an advantage and meant a person could write relative crap as long as it referenced upscale 5th Avenue department stores. That time may not be over, but I've internalized the American populist idea that you are not really from America, did not really have a childhood, if it all took place where "Sex and the City" was shot.

UPDATE

Here are some more thoughts about the "real America" of which I, with my prejudiced conviction that squirrels are not food, will never be a part. I could call it a religious dietary restriction, but that wouldn't help deflect charges of membership in a coastal cabal.

What "Jew York Times"?

The NYT Weddings pages are filled with page after page of couples getting married by rabbis. The paper's most-emailed articles are often on Jewish-related subjects. And the city in which the paper is based has maybe some Jews, not to mention non-Christians of other sects, and many of all atheistic bents. The Times is by no means a local paper, but its spiritual center is no more than a bagel's throw away from Zabars.

So answer me this: What's the point of today's leading editorial? Cited in full to reveal full ridiculousness:

When Christmas Morning Comes

This is a simple holiday. Ask any child, or, better yet, ask yourself what you recall from your own childhood Christmases. Presents, yes, and shopping and decorations and the return of familiar songs and the smells of baking and perhaps the cadence of a few verses from the early chapters of Matthew and Luke. What persists above all is the feeling of finally going to bed on a dark winter’s night full of hope for what the morning will bring. Even jaded adults can remember how that felt, and they remember it as viscerally as they remember anything. The emotional truth in that transition lies at the heart of Christmas. It captures the most basic rhythm of our lives — going to bed at night and getting up in the morning — and makes us keenly, happily aware of it. That rhythm is all the more stirring because the season is so penetrating, the winter darkness so long. Both of the basic stories we tell about Christmas, the shepherds in their fields by night and the peregrinations of Santa Claus, fill the darkness with life and possibility. A stranger, an extragalactic visitor wise enough to look past all the shopping, might be forgiven for thinking that this is the festival in which we celebrate the magic of sleep. After all, what other holiday do we attend in robes and pajamas? The optimism, the generosity, the charitable warmth of Christmas do stem, of course, from the pattern and the meaning of the biblical story. They have their source, too, in the sense of regeneration now that we’ve turned this darkest corner of the solar year. Christmas is imbued with a more everyday hope as well, a recognition that the transition from sleep to waking always carries with it the immeasurable gift of a new day. The very premise is hopeful. No one expects to wake every day as joyfully as a child at Christmas, or to sleep as badly the night before. The gift of possibility is there every morning.

For those who share my fascination with French-Jewish history, "regeneration" obviously jumps out, although the use--if not the context--here is quite different. But, um... "Ask any child" about "the cadence of a few verses from the early chapters of Matthew and Luke"? In New York City? Really?

The language of universality, of how "No one expects to wake every day as joyfully as a child at Christmas," and how Christmas "captures the most basic rhythm of our lives," is poetic but bizarre, along with the persistent use of the first person plural. What kind of horrible person's heart doesn't soften upon hearing the word "Christmas"?

Admittedly a good number of non-Christian New Yorkers go in for the tree-and-gifts celebration, and still more enjoy a day off from work whenever one's offered, but what this editorial evokes is something between a New England WASP fantasy and an Old Navy commercial, not Christmas as it is nondenominationally understood. This editorial is a story that takes place in a house, not an apartment, but quite possibly in an L.L. Bean catalog. The characters are a multigenerational family of Christmas adherents and, presumably, a golden retriever.

So why is any of this a problem? It's simple, just like Christmas: For Jews who are truly bothered by Christmas, and who want to live in a country where the inconvenient days when everything shuts down are at least our own holidays, there's Israel. For Jews who've fallen head-over-heels for the Ralph Lauren lifestyle of let's-overshoot-the-mark assimilation, there's nearly all of America. For those who can deal with the Christmas music and decorations for a couple months but would prefer to rest assured that they are not the only non-participants, there's New York City. What this editorial does is place the Times, a representative of the city, on the same side as Huckabee in the "War on Christmas." What I want to know is, why?

Controversies for everyone else to contemplate while I am offline

-Do professors have a constitutional right to date students? Dinesh D'Souza, missing the point, claims, "If professors had a constitutional 'right to romance,' then a student's refusal to sleep with them would constitute a violation of their rights." Lawsuits demanding the "right" to date Brad Pitt shall soon follow.

-Should there be Hebrew-themed public schools? Arabic-themed? Llama ken or low?

-Discuss amongst yourselves.