One of my most recent obsessions is the show Who Do You Think You Are? on NBC. It's the American version of a staple program currently in its ninth season in England. Each episode follows a celebrity on a quest to discover information about his or her lineage. Kim Cattrall learned that her grandfather had abandoned his wife and young daughters and become a bigamist, eventually moving his new family to Australia while he was still legally married to his first wife. Tim McGraw found out that in the early days of our nation, his ancestors gave shelter to a 16-year-old boy named George Washington.
It's fascinating.
I have dabbled in some genealogy "research" in the past (by which I mean I have typed "Margoshes" into Google and perused the first few pages of results), but this show makes me want to construct my family tree from scratch--to discover long-lost relatives and scandalous family secrets and in turn find out more about myself.
No offense to my mom and her lineage (I'm sure some pretty juicy things went down over there in Labrador), but I've always been extremely interested in my dad's side of the family: a long line of Jews.
I thought I might use my blog as a means of chronicling my research. To illustrate just how much I will learn about who I am, I will detail what little I know as of right this second. (Just a warning: Most of this will be me gushing about how I'm related to famous people.)
1. I am two degrees of separation from my idol, Fran Drescher. How, you may ask? My uncle wrote the music to Fame, and Fran Drescher starred in the TV series adaptation. We're practically sisters.
2. Joseph Margoshes, a writer for a Yiddish newspaper in New York in the 1900s, wrote a book called "A World Apart: A Memoir of Jewish Life in Nineteenth Century Galicia." I was able to read a few excerpts thanks to Google Books. Even if I hadn't known this man's name, I would have known he was a relative just by the first sentence of the Author's Forward: "I have not recorded these pages because I consider myself a great and important personage who has accomplished all sorts of great things." I would know that trademark Margoshes "I'm nothing special" humility anywhere.
3. In a different excerpt, I learned that the name "Margoshes" used to be "Margolis." As I was typing "Margolis" into Google, the quick search suggested "Margolis Edelstein." My heart stopped. For those who don't understand the significance of this, it means that I am possibly related to Lisa Edelstein: Lisa Cuddy on House.
4. My last name is Spanish-Polish-Jewish. Accounts differ slightly on where exactly my family originated, but the gist is this: We were forced from Spain during the Spanish Expulsion after a royal edict demanded that all Jews--a community of 200,000--be expelled from the country.
I know a few more things, but I think I'll leave it at this for now. If anyone is still reading, stay tuned for more updates about my genealogical search!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
RIP, Margoshes Boot Camp
Just as I feared, my attempts at whipping my feline into shape are failing miserably. I would probably have more success teaching an infant the Gettysburg Address. The problem is that Taffy is just too damn smart. Two days after implementing the up-the-stairs-with-the-food-bowl plan, I have this:
 |
| Note the little stinker lying downstairs, staring up at her food but unwilling to expend the energy to go up to it. |
I moved the food to a lower step with the following results:
And even lower. Mind you, this was her dinner time. That cat was hungry:
I then decided to move the bowl all the way to the floor. This got her up and progressing in a forward motion, so I raised her food back up. Please observe the following sequence of events:
And if that weren't enough, this is what I have now:
Yes, that is her string. The string. The only thing in the house (besides her food, of course) that inspires her to move on occasion. I can tell I'm in for the long haul...
Sunday, March 20, 2011
So That Happened
1. When I was doing laundry this morning, I had to transfer a basket overflowing with dirty clothes into an empty basket. I dumped the pile and heard a thud of plastic against plastic. Our broken salad spinner was sitting on top of the heap. I still can't comprehend how that could have possibly happened.
2. My cat seems to have lost any shred of energy she may have had for Margoshes Boot Camp, probably because we cut back her food and she's dying of starvation. She will no longer chase (or even bat at) her string. It's okay, though, because my mom has devised an ingenious solution: I'll stand at the top of the stairs with Taffy's food bowl containing half of her dinner. My mom will stand at the bottom of the stairs holding a bowl with the other half of Taffy's food. I'll shake her bowl and she'll charge up the stairs. Once at the top, I'll hide the bowl and my mom will shake hers. Theoretically, we can get the cat to scale the stairs several times before catching on to our shenanigans. This plan will likely be put to the test tomorrow. Stay tuned for updates.
3. I looked up the guitar tabs to "Left Behind," a song from the musical Spring Awakening. It's not rocket science, but it's definitely not meant to be played by someone who has not added to her repertoire of 3.7 songs in over a year. After days of an aurally excruciating attempt at chord-picking, I can officially report that giving me access to a guitar is the musical equivalent of handing a two-year-old a set of crayons, plopping her down in front of a white wall, and leaving the room.
4. Starting tomorrow, I will be bird-sitting for my neighbors down the street while they're on vacation. I've taken care of their two cockatiels a handful of times before. While I usually spend the entire ten-minute walk to their house mentally reviewing the proper protocol for capturing the birds should they stage a coup, or trying to remember where the bandaids are stowed in case one or both of the birds decides to spear my fingers with their beaks, I'm generally calm by the time I arrive, ready to lay fresh newspaper in the bottom of their cages, fill their food trays, change their water, and be on my way. I went over last week to pick up the key, and my neighbor refreshed my memory about the bird routine. "You remember Eddie and Molly," she said, sweeping her arm in a wide gesture toward their cages. I swear to you, when those birds and I met eyes, there was only one thing they wanted: my blood. "Eddie's been particularly territorial lately," my neighbor explained. "He might try to nip you when you change the newspaper." I looked at Eddie. Eddie looked at me. I took a slow breath so deep I though my lungs would burst. Eddie puffed up his feathers and squawked. My neighbor opened the cage door (and I stepped backward) and reached in for the water bottle. "It's actually gotten really bad," she said. "He's biting all the time. Sometimes I wait until the middle of the night to feed him." My heart stopped. I mumbled something about needing to get home and all but bolted out the door. As I trudged back to my house, fingering the key in my pocket, I couldn't help but make a mental list of everyone I needed to call with words of love and friendship. I couldn't help but see the murky, water-filled potholes as glistening lakes, the thunderclouds as silver pulled cotton candy. I couldn't help but wipe away a raindrop on my cheek with iron-heavy grief, as if it were the last raindrop I would ever have the pleasure of wiping away.
2. My cat seems to have lost any shred of energy she may have had for Margoshes Boot Camp, probably because we cut back her food and she's dying of starvation. She will no longer chase (or even bat at) her string. It's okay, though, because my mom has devised an ingenious solution: I'll stand at the top of the stairs with Taffy's food bowl containing half of her dinner. My mom will stand at the bottom of the stairs holding a bowl with the other half of Taffy's food. I'll shake her bowl and she'll charge up the stairs. Once at the top, I'll hide the bowl and my mom will shake hers. Theoretically, we can get the cat to scale the stairs several times before catching on to our shenanigans. This plan will likely be put to the test tomorrow. Stay tuned for updates.
3. I looked up the guitar tabs to "Left Behind," a song from the musical Spring Awakening. It's not rocket science, but it's definitely not meant to be played by someone who has not added to her repertoire of 3.7 songs in over a year. After days of an aurally excruciating attempt at chord-picking, I can officially report that giving me access to a guitar is the musical equivalent of handing a two-year-old a set of crayons, plopping her down in front of a white wall, and leaving the room.
4. Starting tomorrow, I will be bird-sitting for my neighbors down the street while they're on vacation. I've taken care of their two cockatiels a handful of times before. While I usually spend the entire ten-minute walk to their house mentally reviewing the proper protocol for capturing the birds should they stage a coup, or trying to remember where the bandaids are stowed in case one or both of the birds decides to spear my fingers with their beaks, I'm generally calm by the time I arrive, ready to lay fresh newspaper in the bottom of their cages, fill their food trays, change their water, and be on my way. I went over last week to pick up the key, and my neighbor refreshed my memory about the bird routine. "You remember Eddie and Molly," she said, sweeping her arm in a wide gesture toward their cages. I swear to you, when those birds and I met eyes, there was only one thing they wanted: my blood. "Eddie's been particularly territorial lately," my neighbor explained. "He might try to nip you when you change the newspaper." I looked at Eddie. Eddie looked at me. I took a slow breath so deep I though my lungs would burst. Eddie puffed up his feathers and squawked. My neighbor opened the cage door (and I stepped backward) and reached in for the water bottle. "It's actually gotten really bad," she said. "He's biting all the time. Sometimes I wait until the middle of the night to feed him." My heart stopped. I mumbled something about needing to get home and all but bolted out the door. As I trudged back to my house, fingering the key in my pocket, I couldn't help but make a mental list of everyone I needed to call with words of love and friendship. I couldn't help but see the murky, water-filled potholes as glistening lakes, the thunderclouds as silver pulled cotton candy. I couldn't help but wipe away a raindrop on my cheek with iron-heavy grief, as if it were the last raindrop I would ever have the pleasure of wiping away.
Friday, March 18, 2011
No Pain, No Gain
My mom and I were listening to the radio a few nights ago while driving home from Seattle where we had just heard Maya Angelou speak. John "Intelligence for Your Life" Tesh, my nighttime airwaves guilty pleasure, was doing a story on pet obesity. "If you think your cat or dog could stand to lose a few pounds," he said, "cut back on their food and make sure they are getting the proper amount of exercise." My mom and I exchanged incredulous glances. It was as if the Tesh was addressing us specifically. It was time.
It's not that we feed Taffy as much as she wants, or whenever she wants. She receives less than a cup of dry food total each day, spread between breakfast, lunch, and an early dinner. (Feeding her three times a day is said to help with digestion.) She's been eating the "reduced calorie weight loss formula" for years. According to the vet, we do not overfeed her. She simply has a metabolism slower than a game of Monopoly.
But she is overweight, this we know. Whenever we have company, they feel the need to alert us to the fact that Taffy is gigantic, as if we had no idea. My brother usually joins in the teasing. My mom whispers, "We're working on it" so quietly you'd think she was trying to spare Taffy the humiliation. I'm the only one to scratch her behind her ears (Taffy, that is--not my mom) and coo, "I think you're perfect, Baby." Which she is. But we want her perfection around for a long time, and thanks to the Tesh we have decided to take her future into our hands. Yesterday we significantly lowered the line drawn on the blue plastic cup we fill with food every morning. Today she got her first taste of Margoshes Boot Camp--a grueling, cardio-heavy workout consisting of Taffy chasing and gnawing at a silver ribbon that was once wrapped around a Christmas present. Aside from the small stuffed cat she carries through the house whenever she's lonely and the tan catnip-filled mouse that is now stained green, the string is the only toy Her Royal Highness deems worthy of her time.
Day 1 of Margoshes Boot Camp lasted a mere 20 minutes, but 20 minutes was long enough for me to see that my cat is no different from the contestants of every weight loss show ever created. The first five minutes were fine--enjoyable, even--but after that is when I imagine she realized that there's no such thing as instant gratification in weight loss. "Drop and give me 20, Taff!" I would command, but she chose to just hear "drop." "If you don't get off your behind and get those paws in motion, I'm tacking on two more minutes of this torture." No surprise, that failed to inspire. "No pain, no gain, Taff." "I want to see that flab swing!" "Move it, move it, move it, girlfriend!" (Side note: My sassy black woman impersonation is going to get me shot someday.) My mom, who was in the kitchen mending some chair cushions, warned me not to work the cat so hard that she had a heart attack. She erupted in laughter, what remained of Taffy's "concentration" was broken, and I was not amused.
It was clear from the way the Queen cowered under the dining room table, following the string with nothing but her eyes (they got quite the workout), that Margoshes Boot Camp was too soft on the doughy, sleep-loving feline. I pushed her for an extra three minutes and spent the entire time walk-trotting with her in between my feet, kicking her and shouting, "Up! Get up, demon!" every time she lay down. I was like a freaking exorcist of excess fat. By the end, Taffy was running from the string.
It is now 4:45 and I just heard her yap to my mom, and my mom respond, "Taff, you want dinner? You didn't work very hard today."
Our downfall is that we're absolute suckers for her face, a perfect white triangle on her nose separating the brown left cheek from the black right one. The creature is a work of art. I am certain that if she were any less cute, we would feel not one ounce of guilt for "forgetting" to feed her lunch. That cat better be thanking her lucky stars that she's so freaking adorable. Whoever said looks aren't everything was obviously never an overweight feline.
And even after all that work, I think I got more exercise than the cat.
It's not that we feed Taffy as much as she wants, or whenever she wants. She receives less than a cup of dry food total each day, spread between breakfast, lunch, and an early dinner. (Feeding her three times a day is said to help with digestion.) She's been eating the "reduced calorie weight loss formula" for years. According to the vet, we do not overfeed her. She simply has a metabolism slower than a game of Monopoly.
But she is overweight, this we know. Whenever we have company, they feel the need to alert us to the fact that Taffy is gigantic, as if we had no idea. My brother usually joins in the teasing. My mom whispers, "We're working on it" so quietly you'd think she was trying to spare Taffy the humiliation. I'm the only one to scratch her behind her ears (Taffy, that is--not my mom) and coo, "I think you're perfect, Baby." Which she is. But we want her perfection around for a long time, and thanks to the Tesh we have decided to take her future into our hands. Yesterday we significantly lowered the line drawn on the blue plastic cup we fill with food every morning. Today she got her first taste of Margoshes Boot Camp--a grueling, cardio-heavy workout consisting of Taffy chasing and gnawing at a silver ribbon that was once wrapped around a Christmas present. Aside from the small stuffed cat she carries through the house whenever she's lonely and the tan catnip-filled mouse that is now stained green, the string is the only toy Her Royal Highness deems worthy of her time.
Day 1 of Margoshes Boot Camp lasted a mere 20 minutes, but 20 minutes was long enough for me to see that my cat is no different from the contestants of every weight loss show ever created. The first five minutes were fine--enjoyable, even--but after that is when I imagine she realized that there's no such thing as instant gratification in weight loss. "Drop and give me 20, Taff!" I would command, but she chose to just hear "drop." "If you don't get off your behind and get those paws in motion, I'm tacking on two more minutes of this torture." No surprise, that failed to inspire. "No pain, no gain, Taff." "I want to see that flab swing!" "Move it, move it, move it, girlfriend!" (Side note: My sassy black woman impersonation is going to get me shot someday.) My mom, who was in the kitchen mending some chair cushions, warned me not to work the cat so hard that she had a heart attack. She erupted in laughter, what remained of Taffy's "concentration" was broken, and I was not amused.
It was clear from the way the Queen cowered under the dining room table, following the string with nothing but her eyes (they got quite the workout), that Margoshes Boot Camp was too soft on the doughy, sleep-loving feline. I pushed her for an extra three minutes and spent the entire time walk-trotting with her in between my feet, kicking her and shouting, "Up! Get up, demon!" every time she lay down. I was like a freaking exorcist of excess fat. By the end, Taffy was running from the string.
 |
| Her Royal Highness bogarting my beanbag chair. |
 |
| Her Royal Highness bogarting my bed. |
Our downfall is that we're absolute suckers for her face, a perfect white triangle on her nose separating the brown left cheek from the black right one. The creature is a work of art. I am certain that if she were any less cute, we would feel not one ounce of guilt for "forgetting" to feed her lunch. That cat better be thanking her lucky stars that she's so freaking adorable. Whoever said looks aren't everything was obviously never an overweight feline.
And even after all that work, I think I got more exercise than the cat.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Dr. Olivia's Latest Self-Diagnosis
I have had Lyme disease. Opium poisoning. A stroke. Schizophrenia. In high school, a mole on my leg became malignant melanoma. According to the experts, I've had it pretty rough. And by "experts," I mean myself.
I blame House and the skin cancer unit in 12th grade health class--particularly the disturbing afternoon we spent staring at images of cancerous spots projected onto the whiteboard--for instilling in me the fear of leaving my house without a Hazmat suit. I've lost count of how many times I've fired up the Google for a refresher course on the ABCs of melanoma. It's like a twisted nursery rhyme, and I'm convinced that by the time I have children I'll have found enough cancer warning signs to finish the rest of the alphabet.
I'm what you might call a half-ass hypochondriac. Usually I'm just testing out the terms on my tongue and don't really believe I am under their influence. On those occasions when I'm truly concerned, as has been the case with numerous would-be cavities that weren't, I sink into a deep funk for several hours or several days until my mom reassures me that I in fact do not suffer from multiple personality disorder.
But no matter how angry I may get when I'm on the field, nothing curdles my blood or draws resentment and bitterness more than any player who scores against my Seattle Sounders. I consider it an offense punishable by death. Unfortunately, I can only administer the death glare, complete with lip snarl, and I doubt David Beckham can see this from the field. (He's too busy being aggravatingly beautiful.) But each person who sneaks a ball past the fingertips of the godlike Kasey Keller has earned himself a spot at the top of my hit list. At the end of last season when the Sounders were getting their tushes thoroughly kicked by LA, I was so irate that they wouldn't have a shot at the championship that I had to leave the TV room at halftime to go for a walk around the block. In the pouring rain. Cue a montage of angry men smashing empty beer cans into their foreheads while the depressed little pill from the Zoloft commercial floats by in the background, crying.
I blame House and the skin cancer unit in 12th grade health class--particularly the disturbing afternoon we spent staring at images of cancerous spots projected onto the whiteboard--for instilling in me the fear of leaving my house without a Hazmat suit. I've lost count of how many times I've fired up the Google for a refresher course on the ABCs of melanoma. It's like a twisted nursery rhyme, and I'm convinced that by the time I have children I'll have found enough cancer warning signs to finish the rest of the alphabet.
I'm what you might call a half-ass hypochondriac. Usually I'm just testing out the terms on my tongue and don't really believe I am under their influence. On those occasions when I'm truly concerned, as has been the case with numerous would-be cavities that weren't, I sink into a deep funk for several hours or several days until my mom reassures me that I in fact do not suffer from multiple personality disorder.
All this is just to say that I'm aware of my utter freakdom. I know I don't have Lyme disease (anymore), and it's okay if the mole on my leg might be cancerous because I'm sure the mole on my face is, and that one will probably kill me faster.
But I also know that my most recent non-medical ailment is a violent case of soccer-related anger management issues. Once, and I'm not proud of this--okay, maybe I'm a little bit proud, in that I've-decided-it's-okay-to-be-an-awful-person-during-indoor-soccer way--I smashed into the other team's goalie after she had caught the ball and kicked it toward the other end of the field. I have illegally slide-tackled a girl from behind just because we only had 14 seconds left in the game and I hadn't gotten out all my aggression. I've slammed people up against the plexiglass walls in pursuit of the ball. (In my defense, though, that's an established and oft-used indoor soccer strategy.)
But no matter how angry I may get when I'm on the field, nothing curdles my blood or draws resentment and bitterness more than any player who scores against my Seattle Sounders. I consider it an offense punishable by death. Unfortunately, I can only administer the death glare, complete with lip snarl, and I doubt David Beckham can see this from the field. (He's too busy being aggravatingly beautiful.) But each person who sneaks a ball past the fingertips of the godlike Kasey Keller has earned himself a spot at the top of my hit list. At the end of last season when the Sounders were getting their tushes thoroughly kicked by LA, I was so irate that they wouldn't have a shot at the championship that I had to leave the TV room at halftime to go for a walk around the block. In the pouring rain. Cue a montage of angry men smashing empty beer cans into their foreheads while the depressed little pill from the Zoloft commercial floats by in the background, crying.
That this rage is so intense is a shock to me, the rageful. I seldom experience ire on such a scale in my everyday life. The maddest I've gotten in recent memory was when I started a book that should have only taken me two days to read but was so hard to follow that I barely finished it in five. It is because of the extremely specific, extremely violent bouts of anger during soccer games that I have diagnosed myself with anger management issues.
First order of business: Beckham voodoo doll.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Join Me on My Quest to Do Everything!
I am always on the prowl for new podcasts that simultaneously boggle my mind and make me feel profoundly deficient for how easily and frequently my mind is boggled. My latest discovery is the new podcast How to Do Everything, created and hosted by Wait Wait's senior producer Mike Danforth and producer Ian Chillag. It's "half advice show, half survival guide," and three-quarters AMAZING. And yes, you just witnessed my stellar math skills in action.
So far, in just three 15-minute episodes, I have learned:
1. How to correctly spell Moammar Gadhafi's name.
2. What to do if my brakes give out when I'm driving.
3. How to store potatoes to prevent them from sprouting.
4. What to do if you encounter a large, menacing dog on the sidewalk and the owner is nowhere in sight.
5. What to do if you're trapped on a ski lift and it's clear help is not on the way.
6. How to order wine in a restaurant.
7. How to seek revenge on an ex.
8. What to do/not to do at the upcoming royal wedding.
9. How to get a raise.
10. What to drink if you're stranded in the desert.
And my personal favorite:
11. How to flip a snake-infested house for under $65,000.
Perhaps my favorite facet of this show is that they take suggestions from anyone curious or bored enough to ask. No query is too big or too small. How do you peel and egg without peeling? How do you get your tongue unfrozen from a metal pole in the middle of winter? How do you not look like an idiot at a Superbowl Party when you don't know the first thing about football? Mike and Ian are about to save your life.
I strongly recommend this podcast to anyone with an insatiable appetite for either useless or useful facts. I even more strongly recommend this podcast to anyone who, like me, lacks the ability to differentiate between the two.
So far, in just three 15-minute episodes, I have learned:
1. How to correctly spell Moammar Gadhafi's name.
2. What to do if my brakes give out when I'm driving.
3. How to store potatoes to prevent them from sprouting.
4. What to do if you encounter a large, menacing dog on the sidewalk and the owner is nowhere in sight.
5. What to do if you're trapped on a ski lift and it's clear help is not on the way.
6. How to order wine in a restaurant.
7. How to seek revenge on an ex.
8. What to do/not to do at the upcoming royal wedding.
9. How to get a raise.
10. What to drink if you're stranded in the desert.
And my personal favorite:
11. How to flip a snake-infested house for under $65,000.
Perhaps my favorite facet of this show is that they take suggestions from anyone curious or bored enough to ask. No query is too big or too small. How do you peel and egg without peeling? How do you get your tongue unfrozen from a metal pole in the middle of winter? How do you not look like an idiot at a Superbowl Party when you don't know the first thing about football? Mike and Ian are about to save your life.
I strongly recommend this podcast to anyone with an insatiable appetite for either useless or useful facts. I even more strongly recommend this podcast to anyone who, like me, lacks the ability to differentiate between the two.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
The Nanny
Over the past few weeks, my life has been consumed by The Nanny. In case you've been living in North Korea for over two decades, The Nanny is the suuuuper '90s TV series starring Fran Drescher as the nasally caretaker of three, and Charles Shaughnessy as British dad heartthrob Maxwell Sheffield. The show also features a sardonic butler, a melodramatically lovestruck business partner, and one ingenious one-liner after another.
Rather than rehash the general plot of the show, I yield to the theme song (with some spelling and punctuational embellishments of my own):
"She was working in a bridal shop in Flushing, Queens
'til her boyfriend kicked her out in one of those crushing scenes.
What was she to do, where was she to go, she was out on her fannyyyyy!
So over the bridge from Flushing to the Sheffields' door,
she was there to sell makeup but the father saw more.
She had style! She had flair! She was there!
That's how she became the nannyyyyyyy!
Who would have guessed that the girl we described
was just exactly what the doctor prescribed?
Now the father finds her beguiling (watch out, C.C.!)
and the kids are actually smiling (such joie de vivre!).
She's the lady in red when everybody else is wearing taaaaaaan,
The flashy girl from Flushing, the nanny named Fran!"
That's basically it. It's the age-old story: Boy meets girl, boy mistakes girl for a childcare provider, girl spends five years flaunting her sexuality in front of boy, and eventually boy and girl get to first-name basis (and later, first base).
In short, it's stupendous.
Recently I have begun reevaluating my friendships based on the reactions I get to the statement, "I've been doing nothing but watching reruns of The Nanny." (
This show has become my essence. It makes me love my Jew nose and rekindles my junior-year desire to learn Yiddish from the Yiddish fridge magnets I found behind the microwave during high school. I want to wear outlandish clothing and laugh like a herd of goats and binge on chocolate bars hidden inside a loaf of challah.
From now on, I can conceive of no greater aspiration than the ever-noble goal of becoming a Jew.
If you need me, I'll be in my room practicing my pronunciation of "nuchslep."
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