Why Is This Life Different From All Other Lives?

My mother was supposed to marry well. Unfortunately my dad, the middle of three brothers, was never meant to be rich…I think even he knew that. He was the son of a barber…who also happened to be an asshole, an unlucky gambler and a drunk. Across the street from my dad's dad's barbershop, at my mother's father's butcher shop, my dad’s family was known as the “crazy Hardstarks”. The butcher, George Shatsky, had four daughters, the youngest, although I really should say “baby”, was my mother. My mother’s father, not to be outdone by my dad’s dad, was also a drunk, and was generally an unemotional tyrant. So that’s how I got my name…take the first name of a man who I’m convinced was in the Jewish mafia, and the last name of a man who my dad cut all ties with at age 16 by delivering a well deserved punch in the face to, and you’ve got me.

My family has this weird tradition of naming their babies after dead people, as Jews will do, but in the most obscure way…using one random letter from said family members name and declaring that “there! They’re named after so-and-so.” I can’t imagine that my parents really liked my name that much, if they had, they would have named my older sister (who, unlike me, was planned) “Georgia”, instead of waiting for the child who decided to come along on the exact night that my mother was too drunk to get up and put her diaphragm in. I’m okay with that though, as my name is way cooler then my sister’s name.

Now my brother, Asher, the praised first born…a son, no less!, was born in the freaking Holy Land, for Christ’s sake (okay, not really for Christ’s sake)! It was common knowledge in my family, even for my brother and father, that my brother was named after my mother’s Great-Uncle Al. My father had put a note in the Wailing Wall, back in the dreamy days of my parent’s marriage when they were (presumably) still in love and children seemed like just the ticket, asking God for a child. Cut to nine-ish months later, my brother is born, named after Al, and all is well…until one evening a few months ago.

My mom drunk-n-dialed me on a lonely Friday night; I just happened to be a little tipsy too, and we got to talking about my cat (when all conversation fails with the women in my family, you can always talk about your cat) Elvis and my unwavering devotion to him, which is a story for another time. She started rambling about her beloved cat Annie who had lived on the Moshav with my mother and father back in Israel and how heartbroken she had been when, while 6 months pregnant with my brother, Annie had eaten some kind of plant poison and died. My mother told me, slightly slurring, that she staying in bed for weeks crying, until she decided to name my brother after her treasured kitty. My mom was giggling at this point, as if she knew she had fooled everybody, and told me not to tell Asher or my father. I felt very close to my mom right then, a feeling I don't get very often anymore. It felt like I was talking to a girlfriend who was letting me in on some giggly secret that she had been dying to tell someone... but I guess she was.

Gazongas

Boobies are a weird thing, dontcha think? When I look back on my life I realize I've spent a lot of time thinking about my boobs, other women's boobs, what my boobs look like as opposed to what they're supposed to look like, not to mention cleavage. The amount of time I've spent on this subject is vastly greater then the size of my breasts. To make this scientific:
my boobies < time spent thinking about my boobies

I have a confession, I have very tiny boobs. So small, in fact, that if I really want a comfortable, well fitting bra, I am forced to purchase said bra from the Jr's section of whatever store (Target). There, I said it. But, ya know, I actually love my breast size, even though we've had a rocky past (haha, "rocky". I didn't even do that on purpose!).

Sometimes it still baffles me that I was teased in elementary school for having small breast. ELEMENTRY SCHOOL, people! I'll admit that my rib cage did stick out further then my teeny-tiny breasts, but what the hell are they supposed to do when you're 12? Apparently, we're all supposed to have big boobs like Megan Kelly, who flaunted her rapidly growing bosom in a way which I would smack C's teenage daughter if she ever tried to do. Once all the other girls did start developing breasts, they all described it as happening "overnight". From then on, each morning I'd wake up and feel myself up in the hopes of suddenly finding double D's protruding from my tiny frame...never happened. To this day, every once in a while when I'm just waking up, the thought will cross my mind that, maybe, I finally grew breasts.

Once I got into high school, I was able to accept my perky boobies as a sign of my hotness. As much as I think she is a horrible person, Kate Moss did help me to feel more comfortable with my boobs by brazenly flaunting her own, equally small, boobs. I stopped wearing a bra, got my nipples pierced (I'm still questioning that decision), and began to appreciate my body for what it was; petite in all ways.

These days, I wear a bra with a thin layer of padding, just to fill out my clothes. I know and accept that I'll never have cleavage, will never have a man stare directly at my breasts while I'm trying to have a discussion with him, and am forced to use my hourglass hips more then just a little when I need to be sexy...and I'm okay with that. But, just as I'd like to experience what it's like to have long hair, I also wouldn't mind having, like, a B-CUP FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!!

Blog: It's Better Then Bad, It's Good!

Wherein our friendly author details her history with blogs.

My history with blogs began before I even really knew what a blog was. I suppose it all started with the insanely funny website, The Gallery of Regrettable Food by James Lileks. I read this on a daily basis and absolutely adored it, still do. From there I moved on to the author, James Lileks', blog which I also enjoyed. I read it every few days for a couple months straight (I had a very boring job back then). I loved reading about his growing daughter, his dog, and his days as a stay-at-home dad. I used to think to myself, "Self, that's the kind of husband you should have one day." Then, something happened. It was right around the presidential elections that I realized that *gasp* Mr. Lileks was very Republican. Now, I'm not going to go into my political views here anymore then to say that I totally do not understand Republicans. I have a couple friends who claim to be Republican (not to mention my very own mother), and most of them know not to discuss such things with me. I was raised by (then) liberal Jewish parents in a predominately right-wing community, and I've always been proud of my views. Anyway, I stopped reading his blog once the topics of discussion went from how much his daughter was growing, to how annoying liberals were. I haven't been back since, except just now to get a link to his website.

From there, I somehow moved to food blogs. I can't even explain how much I love food and how excited I get at the prospect of eating out. I think it stems back to when I was a kid and my mother would come home from a long day at the office, wanting only a glass of wine and some down time. The four of us (mom, older sister & brother, and myself) would head out to the local sudo-French-chain-restaurant-of-which-I'm-too-embarrassed-to-name. We'd eat and talk and laugh; once, a stranger who had been dining by himself, approached our table and told us how nice it was to see the four of us enjoying ourselves so much...that always stuck with me. The first food blog I found was Arthur Hungry, a mostly San Francisco based food enthusiast. From there I found the mother of all food blogs, Sam at Becks & Posh. I can't tell you how much I enjoy reading her reviews of restaurants. I've found a few of my favorite restaurants through her blog. Through Sam's website I found the restaurant whore, and then I found this amazing blog which chronicles one man's journey through SF dive restaurants.

Like I've noted before, I also somehow found myself wrapped up in a couple mom-blogs. In my defense, I started reading my first and favorite mom-blog before she was actually a mom. Amalah now has a couple different blogs, my favorite of which is the Advice Smackdown, although I love her original blog best of all. From there I've found Mom-101 and Rockstar Mommy, both of which are tons-of-fun.

Before I introduce the the next in my favorite-blog-category, I just want you all to know that I hate "celebrity". I can't stand most actors and actresses (not including my uncle who was in this totally amazing movie), with exception to those that are actually doing something creative. But I guess that's why I love d-listed so damn much; nothing is sacred. I love Rich at FourFour if for nothing else then his amazing America's Next Top Model recaps. And how on earth could I not include the lovely ladies at Go Fug Yourself?

Random blog I love: Day Cabbie...sooo good!

I think that about sums it up. It's my hope that, someday, I'll be on someones favorite blogger list. Until that day, I'll just have to settle with someone, anyone, leaving me my first damn comment!!!

Hugs,

Georgia

Get Out While You Can

Lately I've had a certain day of my life stuck in my head. It was around the middle of last July and I was in a small suburban community somewhere in England. How I ended up there was this; my friends A and M, who are in a fairly popular (and very good) band, invited my boyfriend (who we'll call C) and myself along for their two week festival tour of the UK. Neither C or I had a job at the time and we both had a little money saved so, even though we only had a couple weeks to get our shit together, we quickly accepted.

It was a 14 day trip, starting in Germany, and we were to be driven from show to show by the tour manager, Gigsy, in a large van. C and I quickly got our things together, luckily we had our passports from our trip to Paris the year before, and before we knew it we were off to the UK with just one small duffle bag each and a shitload of expectations.

Although the trip was very memorable, and I wouldn't trade it for anything, it wasn't what I expected. It was towards the end of the trip, when everyone was in a foul mood and generally sick of each other, that we were back in England with plans to take the train to Ireland that night for yet another festival. C and I had gotten on each other’s nerves throughout the trip, and there was obvious tension between A and M (who have since stopped being in a band together), add to that the feeling that the tour manager didn't like me, or anyone there for that matter, and you've got a girl (me) who just wants some time alone!

We checked into yet another motel with plans to return late that night after the festival and I made a last minute decision to stay behind, alone. I had a hangover from the previous night's drinking and dancing in London, plus it was a beautiful, sunny day and all I wanted to do was walk around this little suburb and spend some time with my thoughts. To tell you the truth, I think I had way to much time with my thoughts on this trip, the majority of which was spent driving from one city to another. Some of the landscape was beautiful, in Germany and Belgium for example, but most of it was dull and depressing...which left me to my thoughts.

Now, you should know that I'm a girl who likes to be alone. In my opinion, going for a walk by myself in an unfamiliar city, or a familiar one for that matter, is an ideal way to spend a day. Taking in the air, people watching, and being a part of the whir of activities in a big city, or the stillness of a quite neighborhood, is terribly exciting to me. The English town in question was the latter; quite and still, not far off the highway.

After some quick goodbyes, my traveling companions left, and I was left to my own devices. The woman at the front desk told me that the town center was about a 20 minute walk away, so I headed in that direction. I main road I started out on was very plain and suburban. If you squinted your eyes you would think that you were in just another off-the-freeway town somewhere California. But when you stop squinting like a moron and open your damn eyes, it was obvious that you were not, if fact, in Bakersfield, or Ojai, or even Walnut Creek for that matter. The cars, the street signs, the brick houses, they were all to foreign to me. You would think this would be exciting to me, but it only made me terribly lonely.

That was the theme of the day: lonely. After a much longer walk the the woman at the front desk had told me, I came to the town center. I'm positive that at some point in the past this little center had been charming...but now it was swarming with tourists and the sort of shops that tourists like to inhabit. I was so sick of Top Shop and the like, and every time I walked by a Halifax (there was one in the town center) I ended up having that stupid "rap" song from the commercial which we had seen hundreds of times on our trip stuck in my head. I wandered around, just about ready to cry, and wished that; I hadn't left C, I could call my dad, I was back at the hotel and had sleeping pills, and that I could afford to eat somewhere other then Burger King.

I started back, even though I could smell an ocean close by, and stopped at the little cemetery I had spotted on the way over. The cemetery was deserted, as any would be on a Friday afternoon, but I think the main reason it was empty was because there wasn't a single gravestone with a date of death after 1970. Most of the gravestones, at least the ones that were legible, were from the early 1900's to about the 1950's. Some just had basic facts on them: "Here Lies So-and-So", DOB/DOD, possibly "beloved such-and-such", but others had heartfelt messages and sometimes witty comments. If I were as interested in the Spanish Flu then as I am now (after reading Wickett's Remedy by Myla Goldberg), I would have looked for signs that the people of this now boring town had been affected. But instead I slowly roamed around, reading gravestones and being careful not to tread on any graves.

This is going to make me sound like a totally horrible person, and I don't mean it in the way it sounds, but my mood had lifted as I left the cemetery. I still felt lonely, for sure, and contemplative and sad and scared, but I also felt happy that I could walk out of there, go back to my hotel, eat Burger King while watching crappy British TV, take a shower and go to bed...which is exactly what I did.

C and the rest of my companions snuck into the room around 3 a.m. I was fast asleep and had long since stopped obsessing that something terrible had happened to them and they were all dead (as I tend to do). I told C about my day; about the stupid town and all the tourists, and about the cemetery and also my crappy dinner at Burger King. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked my head as he listened. The he climbed into bed next to me. Two days later we went home.

The First Time

I really like blogs. For as self-centered and egotistical as everyone says they are, I really find other people's stories interesting. I love food blogs because, well, I love food. And for some strange reason I love mom-blogs even though I don't like most kids (and most moms too, now that I think about it). I guess I just have some fascination with the lives of people that are polar opposite to mine.
My sister recently told me that I write well. I appreciate that because I know that, like me, she loves to read. I'm fairly confident that I'll write a book some day. It's going to be a book of short stories about my life, my family's lives, and life in general. I have no doubt that it will be interesting. I wish I could tell you the title of my yet unwritten book because I think it's the greatest title ever. It's a saying my grandmother used to say to my father that he, half jokingly, says to me...and I now say to myself when I need a moral boost. Now that I think about it, I should have named my blog that instead of "The State That I Am In", but I though that "The State That I Am In" was a terribly clever name because, get it?, my name is Georgia...which is a state name...get it? Dumb.
Anyway, I'm going to end this introduction now so I can get to the real blogging...you know, the good stuff. I'm still undecided about who I should tell about this little blog, or if I should tell anyone at all. I'm excited though, that's for sure.