my second Jewish funeral today

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

and hopefully the last funeral of a close family member that I never knew that I will ever attend. Probably I will get this wish, unless family I never knew about starts coming out of the woodwork. And dying. Now that would be scary.

My favorite part of the Jewish funeral tradition: Getting to help to bury the dead! With shovels, dirt, and all.

My least favorite part of the Jewish funeral tradition: Not being Jewish. As I am not technically a Jew (though I am of Jewish heritage), I don’t get one of these black ribbon things to tear at the end of the funeral and pin to myself for seven days to symbolize my mourning. Which is appropriate given that I hardly knew both of my father’s parents, but also inconvenient given that one of the most appealing aspects of having a death in one’s life is getting to milk the sympathy from the utters of everyone you know for as long as society deems appropriate. Which I still plan on doing.

My least favorite part of death: The concept of burying one’s dead in a casket which is enclosed in another casket of concrete. The casket of concrete serves to keep decaying bodies from contaminating drinking water. But how is anyone going to rejoin the universe that gave them life if they remain for eternity decaying enclosed in concrete?!!

My favorite part of the family trip to the funeral: my father’s joke that I shall have my ashes kept in Tupperware. Apparently he wasn’t a fan of my blog back in 2005 when I wrote my living will.

I used to really love to have imaginary conversations. It was a hobby.

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

I’d pretend my companion was some great love, and we were meeting years later in some NYC art gallery, remembering our forgotten love and reminiscing on those good times long ago. For years my companion was my high school crush. Ooh, how I loved him, that luscious blond hair and those sparkling blue eyes.

I haven’t had many imaginary conversations lately. Other than when I’ve worked myself into a senseless rage, I tend to be pretty distracted with work and life and all that bullshit.

So, tonight I’m half-drunk…or, maybe three-quarter’s drunk…and I’m sitting here: having a conversation with a picture. A color printer printed picture. It’s taped on my wall, and quite wrinkly. And quite cute. But I’m not only conversing with that picture. No, I’m dividing my audience between the one wrinkly print out and the other framed picture from years ago. And boy am I conversing. I’m really updating these pictures on all that fucking shit that went down this week, and beyond! This conversation is really hitting that deepest note that conversations so seldomly touch.

And that’s that. A good conversation with a photo or two. Good times, yo.

I did it.

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

I survived Christmas without my sister.

I mentioned to my mother that a friend had surmised that Alex and I had known each other in a past life or two. She agreed wholeheartedly, and added that “according to [our] positions in the mundane spread,” I actually am in debt to my sister karmically. She thinks that’s why I was so worried about Alex spending Christmas alone.

It makes sense. I’d give Alex my arm, or even my liver! Or some other organ that might do her more good. Anything she needed.

i got this job

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

I think I forgot to mention it. Anyway, it’s a great job. I really like it.

But it’s review time. I’m facing the Tyra of my office. The “congratulations, you’ve made it this far! And look how much you’ve accomplished!” followed by three pages of constructive criticism. How will I take it? Will I cry and blame my sister’s success for my own ineptitude? Or my parents recent divorce. Will I make the semi-finalists, or will I be cut from the running?

Cut from the running of life. My heart is in my throat.

sometimes

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

…you kiss someone and it’s as if ten years have collapsed into nothing…and then you realize that perhaps you were wrong. but said conclusion has few, if any, undeniable consequences.

I talked to a friend today who is moving out the country for good, presumably. He was short with me, and I was offended. I realized, finally, that I am one of fifty. A friend, but not intransiently.

(as a corollary.) sometimes, you realize that you just gave someone terrible advice. And that they believed you, but now it’s too late. It’s like smashing into a parked car in your dreams. It rudely wakes you up, and the rest of the day is consequently tumoultuous.

you feel like you’re always starting over…but somehow never getting anywhere.

“and that’s all you can do about some things.”

I hate people

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

I try to do something nice, it blows up. I try to make a new friend, and it turns out I don’t want them. I try to keep old friends, and shit hits that fan. I try to fall in love, and…

there’s just no point. There’s no point. When one of us falls in, the other falls out. Regardless of who, why or where. Terribly consistent, disquietingly unrequieted.

G. said the other day (and I paraphrase) that commas can surely mislead one into believing that they are reading something poetic, when really the sentence structure is just as empty as the words.

I walked to work today with my pathetic excuse for an umbrella. It would flip up and I’d face into the wind. It would flip down and splash me with all the water that collected in it during its time flipped up. Do I need to suggest that this might be a metaphor for life? I think not, though I just did, of course. I stole the shitty umbrella from worst temp job ever. More of a curse then a blessing, both the job and the umbrella. I’m still shivering.

Who reads blogs, anyway?

I installed an invisible tracker in this thing – I didn’t think anyone even had the address. It got 16 unique hits yesterday. Apparently, some poor bloke in Missouri spent two hours and seven minutes on it. I do hope s/he enjoyed himself. Those are two hours and seven minutes that s/he’ll never get back. Blogs are the perfect avenue for sucking away other people’s time. If only other peoples’ time gave me super powers.

My mother was laughing hysterically at dinner last night, and uncharacteristically delving into philosophical questions. I drank my wine and retreated to my room to pack my childhood into boxes, getting rid of as much of it as I can. I’m glad they’re getting divorced.

I spend my time daydreaming of a magic BART ticket. It would never make the turnstyle blink SEE AGENT, and it would always have $17.80 on it. No matter how many times I used it, always $17.80. I’d save so much money, and time. And the convenience! Oh it’s almost overwhelming.

But, then, what if I lost it?!

the curse of Time

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

Maybe it’s because I’m a Leo, and I crave perpetual drama, but I’m having a really hard time getting over the fact that I am over my ex-boyfriend. I always thought the hard part was the initial moving on, but I have definitely initially moved on. I’ve been initially moved on for months now. Or years even, depending on your interpretation of events.

but here I am…

…back to square one, still pissing and moaning about this stale relationship.

It’s just that this initial moving on that was so healthy has been slowly growing. It’s begun to envelope me. I can feel it, when I think of him. I know it, when I think of oh how much I like other people. And it’s especially obvious whenever we interact. My lack of patience for his eccentricities that I used to find so endearing – even sexy. My lack of patience for his everything. What a loving fool I was, in retrospect. What a loving fool I am, now, to be so distraught by this marked decrease in emotional investment.

Perhaps I’m a nostalgic to a fault (a consequence of the perpetual drama that rules my life?). Perhaps I’m not actually over him.

I could be not over him being over being over me. I could be jealous. People should know not to make a lion jealous.

I think I just miss missing him, miss loving him. I miss being in that state post-relationship where everything reminds you of the two of you together and how much fun you had. I miss looking at my clothes and thinking of how he liked that shirt, or didn’t like that skirt. I miss being unable to wear the jewelry we got together for fear of bursting into tears. I miss being unable to walk the streets of Berkeley without thinking about holding his hand. I miss having sex with other people and wishing it were him.

I miss being heart broken.

Fuck you Time. I didn’t want you to heal this wound. But thanks anyway. You’re like Mom. You always know what’s best.

And will you please send me a new one, so that I might be heart broken again?