We were recently speaking at Chez Nous about what makes up each individual personality–what is a character flaw and what is a character trait and what is a major problem that needs addressing. Can we change who we are and should we ever change who we are? I’m not talking about the things that we can categorize as an actual problem that is affecting our lives across the board, but the small parts that make up our personalities. I think we have a way of always pushing people towards happiness; thinking that we should want to be happy 100% of the time if it’s a possibility. And I think we also push people towards positive character traits; thinking that we should only want the positive ones to be part of our daily make up even though the negative ones usually also hold a silver lining.

I spent a large portion of my life wishing to be my older sister and I still struggle with internal comparisons (it certainly wasn’t external–this was my own doing). It is hard to wish to be someone you’re not and still continue to feel comfortable in your own skin. It took a long time for me to enjoy myself as an individual who is very very different from my sister and like myself even though I’m not my sister. Does that make sense? I mean, how could I like me if I liked my sister better and wanted to be like my sister but I could never be like my sister? You see the Catch-22 in all of this and how happiness came from stepping outside and liking myself as well as liking my sister, even if I didn’t have the traits that I coveted so badly in her.

I don’t want my children to go through that.

And they are very different from each other.

I think it’s natural to covet. Especially when you see someone rewarded or seemingly rewarded for a trait. For instance, someone is very studious and they have great concentration and can work for long periods of time and they earn an A. And someone who struggles to maintain concentration will never receive that A, perhaps. And then the question remains, is a lack of concentration a character flaw (that should be accepted, but perhaps pitied) or a character trait (it’s just who the person is in the same way their hair is brown and they run quickly) or a problem that needs addressing.

The things I wish for are rarely physical (except for hair that could be feathered back in the early 80s. I really wanted hair that could be feathered, but you can’t feather curls). I know that a flat stomach, smaller breasts or red hair are not within my control unless I’m willing to resort to surgery and dye. I was born with my physical traits somewhat decided by genetics. But what about my personality? How was that shaped? And if it was shaped, I should be able to keep molding it, right? Taking on the traits I see and covet. Only it isn’t that simple. You can want to be funny. Either you’re funny or you’re not funny. And if you’re not funny, it doesn’t seem to be something you can just pluck out of a book and learn.

You can want to be laidback or not care so deeply or not be thin-skinned or be more circumspect–but these things seem so much harder to control and mould than physical traits. There aren’t shortcuts or ways to work around them. Your personality traits–whether you are fearful or brave, a worrier or someone carefree, optimistic or pessimistic–feel a little set in stone. Yet if we aren’t born one way or the other and we are shaped by our experiences, when did our experiences cease to keep changing us? When did our personalities settle?

One of our children has an element to their personality and we are unsure if it is character flaw or a character trait or a problem that needs addressing. On one hand, it creates a sweetness and on the other, it creates an impediment. And though I never worried about stirring G-d’s pot when I was cooking up these babies, I find myself very tentative about impacting their personalities–something that will also be with them for life–and trying to change something without knowing the impact of what happens when you move a character trait. Do the rest tumble down after it, reforming like a kaleidescope into a different person?

I wonder what personality traits they will covet in the future. If this child will even see this part of their personality as a problem.

There are certainly ones I covet for myself right now.

I think if I could choose only one to pick out of the bag at the next Secret Santa Personality Grab Bag, it would be bravery. I wish I were more courageous–and not just about crickets and mice. I wish I didn’t let fear play such a large role in the decisions I make.

Many questions rolling around in my head tonight.

I wrote it on Henry Street but realized after I hit publish that I wasn’t just thinking about the insurance company and their lack of empathy. It is so much larger and a response to three feeds I read tonight; three separate posts, all containing words that were said to or about the writer simply to hurt them.

Going through infertility, you realize how much we can’t control. They are with us 24/7, yet we can’t control our bodies. We can’t control what they can or cannot do. But compassion–that is within our capabilities. We can choose in every single minute of our day how we’re going to treat another person.

If you can indulge me in just one more ode to Google Reader (as well as the Virtual Lushary where I just said fuck it to the whole trying to find my breaking point thing and just started adding every customer as they came through the figurative blog door…mwaaaaaaaaaaaah–I will be at over 200 feeds soon enough)–it has added a whole new layer of organization to my life.

The calendar thing was pretty rocking when I added that layer a few weeks ago. It allows me to add someone’s information as a single date or as a yearly occurrence. I can look into 2023 and see Jen’s birthday on there, tucked into June. But Google Reader? It has saved me so much time. I have become an efficient blog reader. And because I have become an efficient reader, I can become an efficient commentor. Before, if I knew I had ten minutes to read, I would just read without commenting, trying to click down the list. But now, if I know I have ten minutes to dedicate to the sole blog that has updated, I can relax into the post, read, think, comment.

My only fear is the going-away-for-the-weekend thing when you come home to 3000 posts unread. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

My other favourite thing is Googling. I have had a Googling Renaissance as of late, looking up random people that I haven’t seen in at least 15 years. It’s harder with women because they often change their last name, but that is just part of the fun. It’s this strange idea that you can peek into a person’s life without actually being close-by or interacting with another person.

And it brings into question a person’s Googleability level. I am difficult to find because (1) I changed my name with marriage and (2) there is a porn star with my name and she buries any mention of me. In fact, I have pretty much never found myself if I just Google my name without additional information, such as the school I used to work for. But what about a man with an unusual name who doesn’t show up on a single search? What does it mean if he’s unGoogleable? Isn’t that a strange thing–not a single mention of this person on the Internet?

I love hearing people’s Google stories–how they’ve found another person through the Web. I am calling a game for the weekend: Go grab your yearbook or randomly name three people from your high school class. Write down what you remember about them from high school (or before). Now Google them and see where they are now.

My offerings:

Girl 1: a free-spirit, she was the type who would release all of the animals in the science room into the wild. Today: she is now an associate producer of documentaries.

Boy 1: good friend from home and college–haven’t seen him since we were about 22. Had the most gorgeous, stick-straight red hair. I have a whole roll of film of him in my dresses with a full face of make-up. Today–completely bald (as in not a strand of hair) professor at a prestigious university in England that rhymes with Lame-Midge.

Boy 2: first boyfriend from 7th grade. Broke up with him at Hebrew School one night. Swore I’d never fall in love again. Today–only one single Google mention: a nomination for outstanding male bartender of 2004 at an all-female bar in San Diego. Congratulations, sweetie, on the nomination. Just in case you find my blog someday.

What did you undig today?

Lastly, this final post by Matt at Maybe Baby entitled, “No Underwear? Check” not only doesn’t need an introduction, it will probably does better with fewer
words spoken. Just go over and enjoy it–my favourite phrase: “Pre-work testicle icing.”

The Roundup to the Roundup: the Lost & Found will be out later today–Purim has thrown everything off-kilter. Eating three Petit Fours for breakfast will do that to you. Also, send in any upcoming dates (birthdays, anniversaries, blogoversaries) for the Lost & Found to my email so I can enter it on the calendar feature. Will you be in the DC area on April 13th? And go forth and Google. And then tell me what you find.

I love Google Reader so much that I’m holding a contest to design a drink for the Lushary in its honour. The Googlerita.

It definitely should have Tequila as a base because just as everyone has a tequila story, everyone has a Google Reader overdose story that makes them wary even though they can’t pass up an opportunity to read blogs through it just as I can’t pass up a free Margarita at an open bar no matter how much it reminds me of the “Incident”–the one that started with high kicks on the dormitory bathroom sink basin and ended waking up in a stranger’s room with the person saying, “I brought you in here because you fell asleep in the stairwell and I had no idea which room you belonged in. No one wanted to claim you as their roommate because you looked like you were going to vomit. You can kick really high, you know that?”

Josh set me up with Google Reader and I have become a massive addict. I keep saying, “just one more feed, one more feed, man. Give me another hit.” I am a huge technophobe and I hate learning how to use new programs so I’ve begged off from actually using a blog reader for years now, choosing instead to click down a list of blogs several times a day as well as my gigantic blogroll at numerous times during the week. And then Purim happened.

Every night, I was silently and not so silently cursing you, calling poor innocent bloggers whores (even the man-pies) for making me click on them when they hadn’t updated yet. I was trying to efficiently blog read in between batches of hamantaschen and it was killing me to click around and not find anything new and use up the two minutes I had before I had to jump back into candy-making-land again.

People aren’t commenting nearly enough right now and people aren’t writing nearly enough right now. I’m just saying.

People have written on and off about how many feeds a person carries and I’m right now conducting an experiment to find my own breaking point. I’ve been adding a few feeds an hour to see when it tips over from being blog reading into blog gasping. I’ll let you know my breaking point. Right now, I’m at 40 feeds and it feels like I am barely reading anything. Which is also scary to think about how many blogs I normally read in a day if subscribing to 40 blogs feels like nothing and I’m thinking it will be well over 150 when I’m finally done adding my daily reads.

So what should be in a Googlerita and why? And tell me what is happening in your life as I pour you a drink.

As always, it has been about a month since we met, bitched, cried, comforted, and caught up each other on our cycles and lives. Pull up a seat and I’ll pour you a drink. Let everyone know what is happening in your life. The good, the bad, the ugly. My only request is that if a story catches your eye, you follow it back to the person’s blog and start reading their posts. Give some love, give some support, or laugh with someone until your drink comes out of your nose.

I have a ton of assvice in my back pocket and as a virtual bartender, I will give it to you unless you specifically tell me that this is simply a vent and you do not want to receive anything more than a hug.

So if you have been a lurker for a while, sit down and tell us about yourself. Remember to provide a link or a way for people to continue reading your story (or if you don’t have a blog–gasp!–you can always leave an email address if you’re looking for advice or support. If not, people can leave messages for that person here in the comments section too). If you’re a regular at the bar, I’ll get out your engraved martini glass while you make yourself comfortable. And anyone new, welcome. I’m glad you found this virtual bar.

For those who have no clue what I’m talking about when I say that the bar is open, click here to catch up and then jump into the conversation back on this current post.

It’s Purim tonight and you’re supposed to get so drunk that you can’t tell the name Mordechai (the good guy in the Purim story) from Haman (the bad guy in the Purim story). Who else is drinking today?

An explanation and perhaps a dose of cheap therapy:

We do Purim hardcore in my house.

This is not how I grew up doing Purim nor is it Josh’s tradition. I have taken an idea in my head and run it into the ground, creating a gigantic hole of a holiday to suck in all unsuspecting occupants of my household. And it’s the only way that feels right–I absolutely love being in the middle of this right now. On Sunday night, when we were getting into bed well after midnight, reeking of chocolate caramel, Josh jokingly barked at me, “it’s fucking Purim and we’re fucking having fun right now. Won’t you all just fucking enjoy this fucking PURIM!”

And we laughed until we cried in that Dan Fogelberg sort of way.

To be fair, I warned him that it was going to be this way. Right after we got married, we were in a fabric store and I commented that I couldn’t wait to have children so we could sew Purim costumes. “Sew them?” he asked. He imagined that we’d grab whatever was a little too large at the local Halloween superstore and put it away until the spring. But I had visions of hand-sewn Queen Vashti gowns, embroidered and beaded within an inch of its life. I researched Persian wedding veils, dreaming that I’d recreate a headdress complete with hammered coins and gold threads for my own little Queen Esther’s wedding night. All of this work for a costume they would wear one time. I told you, I’m a bleeding psycho when it comes to this holiday.

But here’s the thing: I had my first chemical pregnancy the day before Purim and I have been trying to take back the holiday ever since.

Somewhere in that time period, this vision started growing; much like Max and the Wild Things where it started as a few leaves and suddenly his room was a forest. And this vision wasn’t about the here and now; it was about creating something for the future. I’m sure many people have these small movies that play in their head, connected to a holiday or a special location that continuously visit. My movie involved all of my children opening up their mishloach manot baskets when they were in their twenties and thirties.

In the first scene, a boy is undoing his tie and he’s catching up with his wife about their day (she’s sprawled across their bed, fully dressed). His wife says, “oh, and your mum’s mishloach manot basket came today.”

“My mum?” my son says, disappearing into his closet to hang up the tie. “My mum is a fucking nut-job.” But he’s smiling while he says this.

In the next scene, my daughter is shuffling towards her apartment, obviously upset about something and she pauses when she sees my box on the floor outside her front door. She starts crying in earnest as she picks up the box and opening it is the first thing she does when she gets through the door. She has a long cry, clutching something from the box to her chest. And then she calls me and tells me about her terrible day. But that box is what she thinks about years down the line after I’m gone–how it came at just the right moment.

In the next scene, another son is opening the box with his children and they’re all scrambling to be closest to the candy as it comes out of the box. “You know that they’re never going to go to bed if you let them eat candy right now,” his partner says.

“Come on,” my son replies. “It’s Purim.”

In the next scene, another daughter is frantically baking, moving one sheet of hamantaschen over to the cooling racks while she places another in the oven. “Why are you driving yourself crazy?” her friend asks, sitting on top of the counter.

“Because…because my mother’s box arrived today and I have to get mine out tomorrow if they’re going to be there in time.”

And she can’t explain why she does it, but she does it nonetheless.

In the last scene, my youngest son is eating the candy with his girlfriend and he’s falling in love with her because he sees that she has the qualities that he has been looking for all his life. And he’s considering marrying her because he’s thinking about family and home and all of those threads that still tie us together through these boxes of cookies and candy that come through the mail.

I know these images aren’t very realistic by this point. First and foremost, we will probably never get to have that many children. Secondly, all of these scenes are above ground and we all know that at some point, we’ll be living like moles a la 12 Monkeys.

But that is why I do what I do right now. Because I want it to be a foundation that other people stand on later. That it becomes a memory they return to when they think about holidays and family and what we do for others. That it’s something they always talk fondly about after I’m gone–your Great-Grandma Melissa, she was a bit of a nut-job, but she made a damn fine toffee every year for Purim.

Somehow building something undoes the loss. Because I miss something every year at this time. I really miss something. So I build it bigger and bigger and bigger and draw in more and more people. We started out just giving mishloach manot to family and a few friends we saw in shul during the Purim service. And by this year, it has grown into a list of thirty or so people and we spend days hand-delivering and mailing these packages of candy and cookies and toys. We let the kids each pick a person to give mishloach manot this year too. Next year, maybe our list will contain 35 people and after that, 40. And one day, it will become a year-long project.

This year, we also let the twins design their costumes. The Wolvog is going as an iPhone–his choice–and he had me add silver Apple insignias to each sleeve and to the back. Josh is going as an iPod Classic (get it? He’s the classic Apple product; the Wolvog is the new Apple product. Get it?). The ChickieNob dreamed up a pink, floor-length gown with a long train that can be bustled when she gets down–fresh and funky–at the Purim parade.

It’s worth it–it’s worth not sleeping for a week or two and getting myself completely stressed out and letting the house go to shit and not eating well (aaah, said like a true nut-job). It’s worth it when the last package is delivered and the parade is starting and it’s all moving in slow motion and your mind is both back there and here now and you’re thinking to yourself–I am filling up a pitcher with a hole in it and my stream of love is finally moving faster than the leak. I am filling this broken pitcher. I am beating this fucking pitcher and I am going to win in the end and be able to pour out all of this love on my own terms. Because I can fill faster than the hole can leak by now.

But it wasn’t always that way.

So that’s why I do what I do at this time each year. And if you have eaten one of my baskets, you’ve helped provide me with a cup to fill once I got the pitcher full. So thank you.