Growing Up & Getting Older.

This is a photo from ... maybe 2005? 2006? I don't remember. It's old. Just like us, now!

I hit the road to South Carolina around 5:45 a.m. on Monday from Teaneck, beating the early-morning traffic around the city. I turned the music up loud, chugged my Skinny Vanilla Latte, and watched the world fly by in my rearview mirror. I drove through Delaware and Maryland and North Carolina and part of South Carolina, and I knew when I had entered G-d's country: Ronald Reagan quotes on billboards and the "Pull off for porn here" billboards juxtaposed with "Have you been saved today?" ones just across the highway.

I stopped at a large Outlet Mall somewhere in North Carolina, popped into the local Lane Bryant and nabbed a new skirt. While checking out, I had to explain to the woman the difference in names on the cards and all that and she queried, glancing at my head scarf, "Did you change your name for religion or somethin'?" with a thick, curly twang. "Yup," I said, "I got married and converted to Judaism." Without much interest, but with a hint of "well, then ... " she said, "Well, isn't that just nice," handed me my bag, and wished me no pleasantries on my way out. It's easier for me to express the tone in person, with the language and the tone, but, well, perhaps you get the drift. As I left the store, two Muslim women were entering, and I almost issued them a "steer clear!" I almost wonder if my name gives off a hint of Middle Eastern-ness that doesn't say "Jew" to a non-Jewish or non-Muslim crowd. It's not an Esther or Miriam or Sarah or Elisheva or anything. Chaviva sounds to many like Habibi. Anyway ...

So I'm here in South Carolina, where I've been for the past two days, and tomorrow I pack up and ship back off to Teaneck. I am here visiting my little brother, although calling him that feels really strange now. Yes, he's nine years younger than me (surprise!), but he's not little anymore. I resisted a long time seeing him as a teenager, and now seeing him as an adult is even more difficult. He and his awesome girlfriend are sharing an apartment in town until they're able to move into campus to start the school year (which will happen in a few weeks), and at first I wanted to quip, "So how is playing house?" but after being here for two days and watching them cook each other dinner and clean up and do dishes and everything, I realize they're not playing. They're grown up. They buy groceries and watch movies and hug and snuggle and cook pasta in the meager pots and pans they have, but they make it work. And most importantly? They're happy. They're really happy. I'm almost jealous of their happiness. It's simple happiness, but they're really happy.

And it's about 5 million degrees and humid here -- not sure how anyone can function in those temps, but they do. And did I mention they're still happy? Sweaty and snuggly, they're happy.

If anything, being here with my brother and his girlfriend has made me miss my husband more than ever (this is, after all, the first time we've spent nights apart since being married in May). Yesterday we went to Myrtle Beach and roamed the beach, we watched fireworks, we schlepped the boardwalk. And the entire time I was thinking, Tuvia would love this. Vacations without your beloved kind of suck.

I never thought I'd be okay with Joe (that's the brother) getting older, but I think this short trip has helped me cope. I'm beaming with pride and joy in his accomplishments. He's a smart kid, he's always been smart, but his smarts have landed him some pretty sweet stuff here in South Carolina (a scholarship with a FREE computer attached!?), and he's living his life. He's doing his thing. He's living. He's grown up now. And I think that finally -- sof sof -- I'm okay with that. I love my little brother more than anything in the world, more than life itself. For all the hell I put him through as a child, he clung to me and nothing has ever come between the two of us; he is my closest relative, my most special soul. I don't know if he knows how much I adore him, but I think he has an idea. After all, I drove 12.5 hours just to see him.

And buy him sheets and a pillow for school, of course. What are sisters for, after all?

Life is a funny thing. I feel so old around him now. This kid, a man now, with a long-term girlfriend and name on an apartment lease and his own things and life. He's growing up, and I'm getting older. But I'm okay with it now. I have the pride of a million mothers for this boy-turned-man.

Now if I could just get him to cut his toenails ...

Stay tuned for lots of trip photos and me letting you know what it's like keeping kosher around non-kosher/non-Jewish family in a state with very, very, very few options that are not convenient at all. As a preview, check out this gigant fried flounder I got at Cafe M in Myrtle Beach!

Friends Forever: The Long Road of Memory

Driving down a Nebraska road, circa July 2006.

Six years ago, in the summer of 2004, in an effort to occupy ourselves and keep each other on friendly terms while out of school, I took a roadtrip into the country of Nebraska (okay, so it's mostly country) with my good friends of the time Andrew, John, and Anthony. There was a mix CD involved (think: Bob Dylan), and it was that summer that I roamed around freely with my friends, exploring the city and exploring the state. Those summers, when I was in college for my undergraduate degree, were some of the best years of my life. I'm not that far from them (2002-2006), but I look back on them nostalgically because I had a sort of careless fancy that makes me smile when something reminds me of those days. Pictures of country roads, memories of figure-8 races out at the county fair, and watching some country boys watch some very uncomfortable indie flicks that made them cringe and leave. There was cheap beer, coffee, long drives, silent moments, and complete happiness.

My first two years of college were surrounded by men, as I found myself most comfortable around my male counterparts. Andrew, Anthony, John, Caleb, Jordan, Ryan, Greg. These were the guys who, when I think of college (the early years), I think of. To be honest, I'm only still speaking semi-regularly to two of them (one made it to my wedding and another who couldn't, but I still love him). I check in on the others on Facebook, several of them married and others enjoying bachelorhood for all its worth.

I took a drive today from our place in the Poconos to Hawley, PA, a mere 20 minute or so schlep, in order to track down a little coffee shop called Cocoon Coffee House. I didn't think there'd be an actual "coffee shop" out in the middle of nowhere like this, but amid antique stores and general stores, here I am, at a coffee shop with some darn good iced coffee (purchased, kindly, by a local who felt bad that I'd waited so long for my coffee). The drive was on long, quiet winding roads overgrown with trees and old houses with quirky mailboxes. I often wonder what kind of people live in villages or towns like this, where you have to drive a half-hour for groceries and hours further for a Target (I'm hooked, what can I say).

Those, of course, are the moments I think back to the people who lived in middle-of-nowhere Nebraska, where figure-8 races were the highlight of the year, cheap beer was like champagne, and mentalities are slow, easy, and mostly kind.

Sometimes, as Morgan Freeman quipped in "Shawshank Redemption," I just miss my friends. The people who helped me find myself and who took me on the adventure of a lifetime, even if it was just eating Thanksgiving dinner at the table of a family in small-ville, Nebraska, or walking around an Omaha art gallery, or watching movies over cheap beer. Making mixed drinks in a dorm room, watching "A Clockwork Orange" with a complete stranger who would become a best friend, and watching late-night MTV just for the music videos. Those were moments that many people in my Orthodox Jewish shoes never got to experience, let alone understand. I'm privileged to have come from where I came from.

I just wish those people, those boys who turned into men before my eyes, were still active participants in my life and I in their's. When we're back together -- at least with the two I speak two off and on somewhat regularly -- it's like old times. Like I'm still me and they're still them. And in reality, I think we are. I might have changed my clothes and my religion and my hair style (as in, well, it's under a hat now), but I'm still me. I still enjoy cheap beer and Woody Allen and the simple things in life. My friends, my men, I think they're also the same.

Because people don't really change, we just grow up, grow apart, and remember, nostalgically, those long drives down Nebraska highways.

Note: I could devote about 30 blog posts or more to my female friends. It took me a little while to make good female friends in college, and I think the firsts were probably Beth and Melanie, followed by Heather and Ananda. I miss them all oodles, and I get to see Heather fairly regularly. She's my fashionista, design diva BFF. College was a funny time for me and friends. I lost a lot of my high school friends as I made more college-side friends. Luckily, two of my closest friends from high school -- Christina and Maryl -- are still good friends to this day. In the photo below you'll see Heather on the left side of the photo (with her hubby), then me and my man, followed by Andrew (mentioned above), and Maryl (with her hubby). Seriously though -- all of my close female friends have basically been 10 feet taller than me. What gives!? So, see, friends can be continuity. Maryl was my oldest friend there; we got our friendship rolling circa 1998. Twelve long years later, I was so happy she could come to my wedding!

If it looks like my dress looks weird, it's because the bussel broke and Tuvia is holding it up in the back :)

Faux Cursing? Not in This House!

Scene: Starbucks on Easter

Chaviva is busy grading exams, watching the after-church traffic flow in and out steadily. A couple and their daughter plop down at the table next to her. She continues to grade, interspersing exam marks with questions from the wife about what I'm doing (Judaic studies). A moment of silence, grading.

Woman: Oh my, I don't know if I should say that.
pause
Man: I don't even think she heard you.
Me: What? Huh? I didn't hear you say anything.
Woman: Oh, I said (in whisper) oy vey! Is that a curse?
Me: Um, no. It's like saying "Oh geez" or something. It's fine.
Woman: Oh, wow, thank you. I was worried.

That was a weird encounter. Weird only because I'm always experiencing weird encounters at Starbucks. Then, as they left, the man wished me a "good day" and the woman issued me a "happy rest of the semester."

The funny thing is that growing up, despite my parents not being at all particularly religious, my parents wouldn't even let us say things like "oh geez" because the assumption was that it was a shortened form of "Oh Jesus." This went the same for other words that resembled curse words, like "fudge" and "crud." My father was very strict about the faux swearing in that he wasn't having any of it. Of course, as kids we pushed our limits by creating new and creative ways of saying the f-word, s-word, and the h-word. My father's least favorite one of all, actually, was heck for hell. You could have computer or TV cut short for saying heck.

Memories! Just more morsels from the childhood of Chaviva E. At your service!

Oy.

The thing is, shopping for dorm stuff -- sheets, a shower caddy, laundry bags -- is weird. I went down this road six years ago when I was heading to undergrad, and now that I'm heading to graduate school in August, I'm doing it all over again. It was sort of uncomfortable, actually. I mean, I have an entire apartment full of things -- a bed, tables, bookshelves, kitchen appliances, a TOASTER! And now? I'm getting rid of everything. Every last thing. I'm keeping my books, my clothes, and a few bowls and cups for the dorm life. It's so strange. It's downright otherworldly.

And I have four words for you: Extra. Long. Twin. Sheets.

Give me about five to six more years and maybe I'll be settled back into the domestic life. Maybe sooner, actually. We're shooting for age 30 here. It's weird that I'm not even 25 yet. But I will be living in the dorms as a 25 year old.

That, well, that's the strangest thing of all.