India

So I know it’s been a while, but this post is about to be jam-packed.  I recently returned from a trip to India, and I had a truly life-changing experience.  You might be thinking, “yeah, sure, that’s what everyone says any time they step outside the country nowadays,” but I’m being completely serious when I tell you that the trip was eye-opening and thought-provoking in so many ways.  In addition to being a moving experience, my time in India was just really fun. I had a great time with my friends and the whole group, thirteen students, got really close.  We formed a sort of family within the first few days there, which is important and unbelievably comforting in a country that is foreign in every way.  Throughout the whole trip, one reoccurring theme was present: ridiculous things. In a place where everything is new and different, one is able to only grasp a few of the countless details.  I am a person who appreciates all things ridiculous, and beyond the beauty, art, and culture of the country, the one thing that I managed to find in each place we visited was the absurd. 

            
Let’s start with my arrival in New Delhi. It was 9:00 pm and I was absolutely exhausted.  I had just stepped off of a sixteen-hour flight from Chicago, nonstop, and had been drifting in and out of sleep for the past few hours.  My neck was sore, I was lugging around a bag that was larger than I was (which, by the way, continued to grow throughout the 18 days as I added more and more scarves to the load), and I was hungry from having turned down the Indian styled airplane food.  Somehow, vegetable paneer doesn’t sound as good when it is coming from a flight attendant. Anyways, we boarded a bus in a strangely warm and noisy place and were driving through the streets back to the hotel when I suddenly became very uncomfortable.  I looked out the window of our large tour bus and noticed that there were no lanes.  Let me correct myself: the lanes exist only in theory.  No matter where we went, a two lane road turned into a four and a half lane road as there were cars, motorized rickshaws, busses, motorcycles, bicycles, and cows all squeezing past wherever they could find space.  And red lights are optional.  That’s terrifying.

            
We left New Delhi a few days later to go to Varanasi.  When we were there, we learned that India is filled with metal detectors that serve no purpose.  Every time that we entered our hotel, we walked through a metal detector that made space ship noises.  We all expected to be stopped or asked to take out our cameras, but instead we walked right on through, past the man with the large mustache who waved and smiled all day long.  After arriving, we had a few hours to rest, and then we went out into the cities on rickshaws.  I felt bad, because somehow it just seemed cruel to ask a man who looked half my weight and a good head shorter than me to pull my friend Maggie and me uphill through the most crowded city I have ever seen.  But Rickshaw Rick barely even broke a sweat, in one hundred degree weather! 


We walked through the winding roads and through the markets all the way down to the Ganges.  After taking a boat ride along the river, we returned to the rickshaw drivers to be taken home, and that was when I learned my most important lesson: don’t talk to strangers.  I know that every child is taught that since they are old enough to talk, but apparently eighteen year-olds need to be reminded of this crucial rule.  As we were being bicycled through the packed streets, where cows have the right of way and people will hit you with their motorcycle before they will stop, two nice-looking young men pulled up along side us on their motorcycle.  We got to talking and they asked us where we were from and what we were doing in India.  The people are so friendly; it seemed harmless enough.  But that all changed when, after twenty minutes, they were still riding next to us and asking us to meet up later on. Maggie and I started to feel uneasy, and so we began to ignore them in the hopes that they would leave us alone.  It didn’t work, and we soon realized that they were following us.  Rickshaw Rick took detours and side streets, sped up and slowed down, but we couldn’t loose those creeps.  Finally he pulled over and pretended to fix something while the stalkers went up ahead.  He leaned in close to us and said, “If they try to grab you, punch them.”  At that moment the situation became very real to me. I turned to Maggie and said, “Do you see me? I can’t punch anyone!”  Maggie looked back and said confidently, “I was made for this,” so at least I was in good hands.  The creeps followed us back to the hotel, at which point we bolted for the useless metal detector and went inside to hit the buffet.  Getting stalked really makes you work up an appetite.


So I was stalked around the country: at the Red Fort in Agra, at a palace in Jodhpur, and even asked out by the zip line guide in Udaipur.  I never got used to that, but learned how to avoid it.  The other thing that I never could get used to was the fact that people in India were interested in me.  Not just me, of course, the whole group, but still.  What is it that made us interesting at all to Indian people? They were the interesting ones!  But everywhere we went people wanted to talk to us, take pictures with us, and shake our hands.  We would be approached by large groups of Indians who would throw their arms over our shoulders, sometimes without asking, and smile while their spouses took countless shots to document the moment.  We took pictures with families at the Bahai Temple in New Delhi, with Indian young adults at the Taj Mahal, and with a group of Chinese Monks at Buddhist sites outside Varanasi.  Sometimes, people just whipped out their cameras and phones and took pictures of us as we walked by.  One of our chaperones explained that the people who lived in villages never saw Westerners unless they traveled to the big cities, so they would take pictures with us and go home to their families saying, “Look! I met American celebrities!” And who can really argue?


The most uncomfortable, however, were the people who would hand us their babies.  They would walk up, shove an infant into your arms, and point at the camera.  The first time that this happened, in New Delhi, all of us were shocked and we laughed about it all day.  It became a reoccurring theme throughout the trip, though, and within a week or so it had happened to most of the girls.  Someone would step onto the bus after visiting some sight and say, “I had my first baby picture.”  Though it never happened to me personally, I believe I was the only girl in the group of eight who never had a baby thrust into my arms. I don’t know if I seem less trustworthy than the others, but for some reason, I never had a baby picture.  Maybe next time.


Apart from all of my strange experiences, India opened my eyes to beauty that I have never seen before.  We watched craftsmen at work: replicating Mogul Miniatures, weaving silk saris, creating handmade woven rugs, dying fabrics, and forming vases from hunks of clay in a matter of seconds. I saw landscapes that seemed too picturesque to be real and architecture with a level of detail that could give you headaches.  The one thing that constantly struck me, however, is the beauty of color.  Everywhere we went, we were surrounded by the most brilliant hues.  So buy a tote bag and bring some brilliant color into your life, because sometimes we all need a little color to add a little joy into our days. 

-Emma

Snow Day

I don’t know about you, but I have never been a huge fan of the snow. I live in Chicago and have to deal with it for about four months of the year, so I am definitely used to it.   But that does not mean that I like it.  Every year all of my friends get super excited for the first snowfall, and, not wanting to look like the Grinch, I go along with it. Sometimes I think I am even able to convince myself that I am looking forward to it.  I think, “well, it feels like winter, I guess it better look like winter, too.”  And then, as soon as those icy flakes start to fall, I remember why it is that I don’t like the snow: it’s cold, it’s wet, and it limits my shoe selection.  Again, I know that makes me sound like a curmudgeon, but snow is only nice from inside.  It’s lovely to sit in your living room with a fire roaring in the fireplace, sipping hot tea, but it’s not so nice trekking from your car to the school and having wet feet for the first 4 hours of the day.

This year, however, was different.  I have a newfound love of the snow.  And I’ll bet you can guess why.  That’s right, snow day! The last time that I had a snow day was in second grade, and I still remember it as one of the most magical days of my life.  I don’t go to one of those schools that dish out snow days like turkey on Thanksgiving.  No siree, my school has not canceled class due to the snow since 1967 (some argue that they canceled in the 80s for a snow day, but it was actually because the boiler broke).  So this was a truly historic event.  All day on Tuesday my friends and classmates kept saying, “I really think there’s going to be a snow day this time.”  But I remained skeptical.  I didn’t want to get my hopes up, only to be crushed with disappointment.  But, to my surprise, I was wrong.  The school called a snow day, and I was like a little kid who’d just been set free in Toys R Us with a credit card.  I called my brother, to brag of course, and he was outraged.  “WHAT? YOU HAVE A SNOW DAY? THIS IS RIDICULOUS! WHAT HAS THE SCHOOL BECOME?”  If you can’t tell, he was jealous. After doing a quick victory dance in my kitchen, I packed up my belongings and went to stay at a friend’s house. 

The best surprise came the next night.  I was about to start my homework, when I received four text messages at the same time informing me that school would be canceled for the second day in a row.  “Is this real life? How could it be?”  My victory dance was a little bit longer that time.  I felt like I’d just won the lottery.  I called Jake again, and he could barely even speak to me.  I think it’s the most upset he’s been in a while.

So, you might ask, what did I do on my snow days? Did I go sledding? Did I have an epic snowball fight? Did I bust out the cross-country skis that I don’t own? The answer to all of your questions is: No.  I did absolutely nothing, and it was wonderful.  Sure, I hung out with friends, and I baked, and I watched movies with my mom.  But this snow day was different from the magical adventure in second grade.  I did not make snow angels or bust out my snowsuit.  I did not carve out tunnels or try to build igloos.  Nope.  I roamed around my house, drank my weight in green tea, and enjoyed the feeling of having absolutely nothing that I had to do.  It was a beautiful thing. 

Now, the snow often calls for heavy gear: hats, gloves, mittens, scarves, the works.  And when you are out and about, you need a place to store the goods, because we all know your pockets aren’t that big.  So you’ll need a bag big enough to fit all of your regular necessities, plus your snow gear.  And nothing is better for the job than a stylish tote bag.

 -Emma

Pale in Comparison

Happy New Year! I know it’s been a while, but I thought I’d give you all a little bit of time to catch your breath after all of the holiday and new years festivities.  It’s been an eventful couple of weeks, let me tell you.  Our holiday season did not start off so well, because about a week before Christmas my mom slipped on the ice and broke her wrist.  Keep in mind, this is a woman who has lived in Chicago her whole life and faced the most brutal of winters.  The fact that she has managed to keep her balance until now is deserving of a round of applause.  I don’t know about you, but it makes me a little freaked out to be on the ice.  But maybe that’s just because I am one of the klutziest people in the world, when I’m not dancing.  The break was bad and my mom needed surgery, so that was not too much fun.  It hasn’t all been bad, though.  For one thing, Jake and I got to be my mom’s chauffeurs for about a week, so we had lots of time for good car talks (the best kind of heart-to-hearts) and I finally learned to drive a car other than the beast.  And, in the spirit of our family, my mom has learned to laugh at her situation. For two weeks she had to keep her arm elevated, so we all walked around the house waving at her constantly. 

Despite my mom’s injury, we still went to Mexico.  It really was the best place for her to heal, and the rest of us didn’t mind it too much either.  This year I was especially hopeful that I would get tan, or at least mildly beige, but no.  I have finally realized that it is time to give up all hope of ever getting that bronze glow, because I am permanently pasty.  My mom tries to make me feel better about my condition by telling me that I’m alabaster, like a China doll.  But who are we kidding? I’m practically translucent.  I would like to say that it’s genetics, but my parents both get quite dark after a day or two in the sun.  Jake is more or less in my boat, but I think that I am truly the whitest thing to ever walk this earth.  I partially blame my mother, who brought along, wait for it…spf 85 for the trip.  I mean, really, isn’t it all the same after 30? We opened up her stash of sunscreen when we got there and found spf 55 (which was gone after 2 days), spf 70 (which went next), and the truly absurd spf 85.  On the second to last day I found out that she was hoarding a bottle of spf 50, so I stole it and brought it to the beach, but it was too late. 

In my effort to get tan, I laid in the sun for hours (I’m talking 5 hours a day here, people), with the desperation that only a near-albino girl can have.  I did everything I could, but it was hopeless.  Even the managers at the restaurant noticed.  Little known fact: Mexico loves me.  For whatever reason (though it’s not hard to believe) whenever we go to Mexico, the people take an extra liking to me.  Maybe it’s because I try to speak Spanish, or maybe it’s just because I’m awesome.  So the two managers at the restaurant would come over to chat, and one day, Narciso said, “Wow it’s amazing! You’ve been laying out for days and you’re still so pale!”  As if I didn’t already know.  Later that night he informed me that they sold tanning oil in the gift shop, if I was interested.  Too bad that I would have been burnt to a crisp if I had used it.  Then, a few days later during breakfast, the other manager says, “I can’t believe you still haven’t gotten tan. Not at all! I’m going to go pray to the Mayan gods for you.  Maybe they can help.”  Really? I mean, I know it’s bad, but at least I got a few sun freckles.  And I could have sworn I had a faint tan line.  That counts for something, right?

So for all of you men out there reading this (if you exist), you know what’s coming up.  I’m mentioning this early, because I know how much you like to procrastinate.  You don’t want to be that guy who is frantically searching for a Valentine’s Day gift on February 13.  So when you are thinking about what to buy for your loved one (or loved ones), order them a tote bag!  They come in lovely hues of pink, if that seems more romantic, but we all know that all of the colors are great for a gift.  And they can hold a lot of sunscreen.

-Emma

'Tis the Season

The Holiday Season is finally here!  I live for the holidays.  I am actually one of the few Chicagoans who love the winter.  Not even for the sledding and the snow (which I could do without).  But besides sweaters, wool socks, and hot tea, my favorite part of winter is the holiday spirit.  I know what you’re probably thinking: “But Emma, you’re Jewish!”  Yeah? So what!  There’s something magical about the scent of warm spices and decorative lights (only when done tastefully, though, so don’t get crazy, people).  I took a trip to Christmas Town with my friends this weekend.  It’s a town that just goes buck wild for Christmas, and the whole downtown area sells Christmas stuff and decorates for the holiday.  The best part is the candy shop where you can watch them making fresh candy canes.  And then eat the fresh candy canes.  Yummmm. 

I also have a mini-obsession with Christmas trees.  They’re just so beautiful and happy.  I mean, really, how can you not be happy when in the presence of a Christmas tree?  So much festivity, so much tradition.  It’s great.  My mom asked me the other day if I have Christmas envy and I responded, “No, just Christmas tree envy.”  So naturally I asked my dad if we could keep a holiday tree in the house.  He denied my request, so I downscaled to just a small one in my room.  I offered to call it a Chanukah bush if he wanted, but he pointed out that there is no bush in Chanukah.  But I was relentless.  What did I do last year? Shoved one in my locker at school.  Yes it was a pain, and yes, I lost time working around it to get my books, but it was so worth the struggle. 

I should probably talk about my own holiday a bit, though.  I really and truly love Chanukah.  And everyone always says that it is just for the presents, but I swear it’s not.  Chanukah is first and foremost a festival of lights.  A celebration of miracles.  An embellished holiday that is loosely related to a true historic event.  But that is neither here nor there.  Who really cares if Chanukah was promoted to get kids more involved in the temple?  I certainly don’t.  Chanukah is about hope, optimism, family, and intense games of dreidel.  It’s been a few years since I’ve played, so I’m probably a bit rusty, but trust me I used to clean up.  Sure, it’s kind of a game of luck, but I think I was still pretty good.

But the reason that I really love Chanukah is that for eight days, you have that one thing to look forward to each night.  That time when everyone gathers around the menorah and says the prayers and lights the candles.  It used to be more stressful when Jake and I had to fight over who got to light the Noah’s Ark menorah (awesome, right?).  Now that we’ve updated to a more “sophisticated” menorah, the only thing I have to worry about are the candles themselves.  I’m kind of afraid of fire.  I really like being around fires (cozy fireplace fires, bonfires, campfires, etc.) but I’m terrified when it comes to using lighters and holding burning candles.  I refuse to use the lighter to light the first candle. I tentatively light the others, but make someone else put the candle back in its place so that I can avoid the hot wax.

So this is where the rubber meets the road.  I’ve heard a lot of positive feedback about the posts, so now it’s time to really show your appreciation.  It’s the holiday season, people, and I know that you’re all rushing around to get your holiday gifts. Whether those gifts be late Chanukah gifts, Christmas gifts, heck, even Kwanza gifts, you know what to get.  A tote bag!  The perfect present to show someone that you care. 

-Emma

Turkey Bowl

Thanksgiving is all about tradition.  It is one of my favorite holidays.  So much love, happiness….thankfulness.  I know that’s cheesy, but it’s such a warm holiday.  Nothing gaudy or overly commercialized.  And let’s be honest here, everyone looks forward to Thanksgiving dinner.  But in my family, Thanksgiving dinner is not even the half of it.  Let me tell you about some of our other rituals on this fall holiday.

First is the family football game.  My dad’s family has had a football game on Thanksgiving morning every year since far before I was born.  It’s just a standard game of touch football, but let me tell you, it gets pretty intense.  I started playing when I was around 7 years old.  And if you know anything about me, you know that I am in no way good at football.  I think it has something to do with the combination of me not being able to throw or catch, much less both at the same time.  (Last year in gym class we played flag football and I got placed in the B League, so we spent a week running drills.  In the five days, I did not catch the ball once.  Eventually my teacher took pity on my and handed off the ball so that I could feel somewhat accomplished.)  So needless to say, I am not a huge asset to the team.  My cousin is my age, and for a few years they let us play on the same team.  They would periodically stop, about once every 45 minutes, to run a “G-Play.”  Let me take a second to break down a typical Girl Play.  Everyone pretends to actually try, but nobody really does.  Someone throws the ball to one of the girls on the team, and we all ignore the rules of the game, meaning whether the girl drops or catches the ball, she grabs it and runs until she gets a touchdown while everyone fake lunges at her so that she thinks she really made a contribution to the game.  And then the game continues as usual.  A few years ago, I realized that these plays didn’t count towards the final score.  I felt a little dejected. 

Once we outgrew G-Plays, however, it was time to throw us into the actual game.  Meaning my cousin and I had to be on opposing teams to guard each other.  Both of us complained and put up a huge fight, but our fathers could not be swayed.  Once the game started, we were down to business and, eager to prove ourselves, got a tad bit too aggressive.  It started with harmless guarding and running, but soon swelled into pushing, hair pulling, elbowing, clawing, and I think I was even slapped across the face.  So that was the end of that experiment.  Now we usually play for a few minutes, and then sit on the sidelines drinking hot chocolate. 

Then we have the usual Thanksgiving dinner at my Aunt and Uncle’s house, which is always delicious and leaves everyone pleasantly (or unpleasantly) full and satisfied.  My grandpa usually lets out a good ol’ “Buaaaaaaah” at the end of the meal, so you know it’s good.  And then comes black Friday.

Black Friday has changed in my family throughout the years.  My parents used to try to take my brother and I to museums, but those days were filled with complaining and Museum Legs (You know, that feeling when your legs feel like jello that you only get when walking around a museum?)  Then we tried shopping, but after several near trampling incidents, we decided that perhaps a movie would be best.  So now we see a movie every year on Black Friday.  This year we’re going to see, you guessed it, Harry Potter.  I feel like the last person on the face of the earth to see it, so I’m excited.

Anyways, Thanksgiving is filled with family, tradition, good food, and great leftovers.  So when you’re packing up the leftover turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes (mmmmm) and cranberries, and you need a bag to place all of the Tupperware in, you know where to find one.  A tote bag, available in lovely fall colors, is perfect for the job.

-Emma 

Dance Away

I may already have mentioned this, but I am a dancer.  I have been dancing since I was two years old, and I love everything about it. But my favorite part of dancing is performing.  I’m not an attention-seeking weirdo or anything, but I absolutely love dancing on stage: the lights, the costumes, the loud music, I live for it.  So what has inspired this discussion of my dance life?  Orchesis.

Many of you may be scratching your head and furrowing your brow thinking, “what in God’s name is an Orchesis?”  Orchesis is the dance company at my high school, and it has been a huge part of my life for the past two months.  Every year we hold auditions in September, and we have performances in November and May, with a three-month break between seasons.  So our November showcase is next weekend.  Which means that this is the week that I go around telling everyone that they simply MUST come see the show.  Often enough, people hear the word Orchesis and ask one of two questions:

1.     “Oh, so do you, like, play the violin or something?”

2.     “Isn’t that some kind of interpretive dance… thing?”

The answer is no. No, Orchesis has nothing to do with Orchestra, and no, Orchesis is not an interpretive dance group…the idea scares me a little bit. 

So every year we start rehearsals just after auditions, in the first or second week of September.  Once you make the company, you are cast in a certain number of dances, depending on your year in school and how many seasons you have been on Orchesis.  There are several seniors each season who choreograph pieces. The rest are choreographed by Ms. Riner (the dance teacher in charge of Orchesis), other teachers, and guest choreographers.  This year, I am doing an independent study in choreography with Ms. Riner, so I choreographed a full piece and a mini solo that is in another dance.

But what I really want to talk about is tech week.  Tech week is the week before the show, and we run the entire show once or twice each day with lighting and costumes.  Tech week is also a week of traditions.  Each day, we dress up according to some ridiculous theme to advertise for the show.  Past dress-up days have included: dress like a dancer day, dress like an athlete day (which we were all made fun of, so that one didn’t stick), white t-shirt/hallway marker wars day, monochromatic day, etc.  So you get the idea.  This year is pretty exciting, because the seniors decided to bring back pajama day, which means….wait for it…drum roll please…ONESIES.  That’s right, this Tuesday I will be sporting a bubble-gum pink adult onesie complete with dogs for feet to school.  If you can’t tell, I’m kind of excited. 

Besides dress up week, we have other traditions, most of them revolving around food.  Don’t think for one second that we are those kinds of dancers who don’t eat anything.  I would venture to say that at least half of Orchesis traditions involve food.  On the Friday of the first show, we are called out of eighth period so that we can go get some food before our 4:00 pm final dress rehearsal, which means that we all pile into cars and go to get Italian ice and French fries or milk shakes.  Then, after the final dress and before the opening show, we sit in a giant circle, eat pizza, and talk.  And then there’s always the random nights during tech week that we order $80 worth of Thai food for the company to eat during the run-throughs. 

So what do I do when I have lots of costumes, dance shoes, and makeup to bring for the shows?  I throw all of it in my Tote bag, of course! For all of you dancers out there who have tons to carry around for classes and shows, and the athletes who have their own equipment, you’ll need a big bag to transport all of your goods.  Make it a tote bag. 

-Emma

Christmas in October

Trick or Treat!  Halloween is only ONE WEEK AWAY!  If you haven’t already guessed it, I love Halloween.   Then again, I am a Halloween baby.  My birthday is the day before, so I have always felt a special connection to the fall holiday. I love the spirit, the costumes, and of course the candy.  But when did Halloween become the who-can-throw-the-most-technicolored-plastic-junk-in-your-front-yard contest?  I mean, really, people.  Look out your windows.  The wispy fake spider webs? Tacky.  The plastic spiders? Tacky.  In my opinion, you’ve got to go big or go home. The decoration that I used to get a kick out of was the witch that looks like she has flown into a tree.  But now I see them everywhere!  Too many witches have been texting while flying. 

On the other hand, there are SO many people who are going all out on their decorations!  It’s like everyone has to have a horror movie set in their front yard to be considered a civilized American.  The guy who lives down the street from me sets up a graveyard in front of his house every year.  Want to guess when he had it all set up by?  September.  That’s right, it has been there for a month.  Impressive, or obsessive?  You tell me. 

But we all know what Halloween is really about.  Well, besides the candy.  Costumes!  I get really into costumes, I always have.  And I was not always something generic.  When I was in second grade, I went as a geisha.  The costume came complete with Kimono, chopsticks in my hair, and white face makeup.  Thinking back on it, that is kind of an odd costume for a little kid, but I guess I was just unique.  My brother, however, used to steal the show every year.  He had the most obscure costumes.  My personal favorite was the underwater lobster fisherman costume.  He even had a net filled with fake lobsters.  He was four. 

This year, my friends and I were trying to find something good that we could go as in a group.  Our first idea was the Seven Deadly Sins, but I don’t think anyone wanted to be Gluttony.  Then, my friend Mira came up with Inconsequential Disney Characters.  I liked that one.  Can’t you picture the conversation?

“Cool costume, but…what are you?”

“Oh I’m so-and-so”

“Who?”

“You know, the soldier from Mulan?”

“No…”

“Oh, well, he’s a pretty inconsequential character.  No lines, or anything.”

But none of us could think of enough inconsequential characters.  Probably because they are inconsequential.  My idea was that we go as a box of crayons.  We could all buy crayon costumes, and then make a box that would fit all of us just so that we could be an enormous hassle anywhere we walked.  But we never ordered the costumes.  Or got around to making the box.  So I think that we are going to be Gym Teachers.  It’s just an excuse for me to wear tube socks. 

Now to the candy part.  Whoever came up with this system of walking around and getting free candy from people is a genius.  But where are you going to put all of those sweets while walking around?  A plastic pumpkin?  That’s been done.  A pillowcase? Hard to carry.  What’s easy to carry and large enough to fit enough candy to give you a mouth full of cavities?  That’s right.  A tote bag.  So when you are looking for the perfect trick-or-treating bag, in fall colors, you know where to find one.

-Emma

A Fore Letter Word

Let’s talk about golf, shall we?  Golf is something of an addiction.  Once you get hooked, you just can’t stop.  But I suppose that only applies to those who are good at golf, myself not included.  My dad, however, loves golf.  It comes third, after only  his family and his work.  To him, golf is more than just a game.  It is a way of life, a philosophical challenge that can be applied to all aspects of daily living.  When I am having trouble in school or in dance, my dad readily offers a golf analogy that he believes will help me overcome my problems.  I tried to learn to play, once.  My friend Hannah and I enrolled in a one-week golf camp.  To give you an idea of how horrible I was, let me tell you about the driving competition.  Not in a car, but hitting the ball with a driver.  There was a prize for the longest and shortest drives.  My ball went backwards, but I still lost in the shortest drive category.  Somebody else’s ball went further backwards. 

My brother shares my dad’s passion, and the whole family has accepted that I have no golf potential (although my dad always said I had the perfect swing), but my dad has spent years trying to convince my mom to take it up.  My mom always refused, not even giving it a second thought.   She called it “your golf” when speaking to my dad about it.  She knew it was good for him to have a hobby, but she had no interest. But all of that just changed. 

About two months ago, my mom received a call while the two of us were out walking.  This is what I heard:

“Hello? Is everything ok?...What?... (Laughter)… Oh you can’t be serious…That’s awfully sweet of you but I couldn’t…Alright I’ll consider it.”

I asked who it was, and my mom said it was Steve, my dad’s golf teacher.  Apparently they had been discussing me going off to college, and Steve thought it would be fun if my mom learned to play golf as something for my parents  to do in their empty-nester phase.  He offered to give her a few lessons, and to keep the whole thing secret from  my dad.  My mom immediately wrote the idea off as ridiculous, but I told her she had to do it.  It would make my dad the happiest man in the world if he could play just one game of golf with my mom.  So she said she would try. 

Thus, the lessons began.  My mom showed up for her weekly lessons, and slowly but surely learned to enjoy golf, just a little bit. She would arrive dreading the next hour, but would leave giddy at her accomplishments. Steve called her tadpole, kindly poking fun at her beginner’s status.  I would come home from school, greeted with funny stories about the lessons and my mom’s soreness.  After the first lesson, she was so excited because she realized that there is a whole new market out there for vinyl golf accessories: bags, shoes, gloves, club covers, the works.  I think I saw her eyes sparkle a little bit just thinking about it. 

So my brother, my mom and I kept this little project a secret for about two months, when my mom finally broke the news to my dad.  She left a wrapped sleeve of golf balls out for him (my suggestion, might I add) with a card.  He read the card, in which she explained the whole story, and when he got to the part about her actually taking the lessons, his eyes bugged out and he mad a face that showed a cross between intense joy and disbelief.  She told him that they would pick a date that they could go out and play together.  He looked like a little kid who had just been handed a credit cared and let loose in Toys R Us.  So who knows?  Maybe my mom will continue this little endeavor and learn to love golf. 

If you are already a golfer, or this story has inspired you to take up golf, you know you are going to need to carry around all of your golf accessories.  And who wants to carry all of that around in your hands? Unacceptable.  So when you are looking for the perfect tote bag to transport your tools, you know where to find one. 

-Emma 

T Bags

It seems that fall is finally here.  I’ve been saying for weeks that it has been on its way and that I was starting to feel the effects, but this week I felt that crisp chill in the air.  Refreshing, bright, colorful fall.  Can you tell that I love it? 

You already know a few of the reasons why I am so devoted to this short and unpredictable season.  Of course there are the changing leaves, the taffy apples, the wool socks, the boots, the Halloween spirit, my birthday, the scarves, and the just-chilly-enough-but-not-so-cold-that-I-hate-going-outside weather.  But more than anything, my love affair with fall has everything to do with coffee and tea.

I may not have mentioned this before, but hot drinks are kind of my jam.  I live for them.  Why have an ice-cold soda when you can waft a steaming mug of tea?  I am also, though I hate to admit it, horribly addicted to coffee.  I know what you’re thinking: “Addicted? But you’re still in high school! You’re not supposed to be addicted until you are at least 25.” Believe it or not, it’s true. My addiction, however, is not like most.  For me, coffee is more than that brown muck that keeps you awake all day.  No, coffee is something to be celebrated.  That warm, bitter, taste.  The earthy notes with just a hint of sweetness.  I love coffee.  I love the taste; I love the smell; I even love my thermos that will, no matter how many times I wash it, always smell like coffee.  Drinking it is not a chore, it is an honor.  So I do not hang my head in shame for joining the millions that get splitting headaches on the one day of the year that they forget to drink coffee.  If crabbiness and a throbbing cranium are the price I must pay, then it’s worth it.

The only hot drink that I love even more than coffee is tea.  It is almost too daunting of a task to put my passion for tea into words.  Sounds do it more justice, but I don’t know how to translate a deep hum of contentment through the written word.  So I’m just going to have to try to tackle the former.  Tea warms not only my body, but my heart and soul.  I know that sounds cheesy, but a great mug of tea can actually change my mood and my entire day.  I pride myself on collecting teas from different places.  Whenever I come across a good teahouse on vacation, I stop in to taste and bring something home.  I have teas that suit my different moods, and I tend to favor different flavors depending on the time of the year.  When I am sick, I turn to my “magic tea,” a tea that I bought in a small village in Israel.  When I am stressed out, White Cloud is my dear friend that calms me down with her soothing notes of toasted coconut and pineapple.  When I need some energy, I look to my collection of black teas for guidance: apricot, vanilla, Irish breakfast, Island mango, original spice, the list goes on and on.  Sometimes, like Kermit the frog, when I am feeling green, Moroccan Mint and Jasmine Oolong are eagerly awaiting me.  So as you can see, I am something of a tea fanatic.  I look forward to tea shopping at my favorite tea store in the area, and I’ll make plans weeks ahead of time to ensure that I have a long, satisfying visit. 

Now, I know this sounds odd, but I often bring tea over to my friends’ houses.  I’ll bring a selection that we can make, if we feel so inclined.  Study sessions always require an array of greens, blacks, and herbals, so I need a big bag to transport my treasures.  Where do I turn? You guessed it: my tote bag.  So if you need to bring tea or coffee to a friend’s house, work event, or any other gathering and you need a bag to bring it in, you know where to find it.

-Emma

Fast and Feast

As I’m sure many of you know, today is Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashana was a little over a week ago.  The Jewish high holy days came quite early this year, but I think that the Jewish celebration of the New Year was actually at the perfect time.  As school  has started and the weather has begun to change, I have been thinking not only about new beginnings, but also reflecting on the beginning of my last year at home.  This time of year is filled with tradition, especially with my family, and as we all wish for a sweet new year, I have come to truly appreciate the joy that comes at this time from years past. 

One tradition that I look back on fondly is apple picking.  I have a friend whose family just went to pick apples at an orchard that only grows honeycrisps (jealous!), and I thought about when my family used to go.  When I brought it up with my mom, though, she reminded me that apple picking is an activity that is always better in theory than in practice.  One conjures up images of frolicking through rows upon rows of plump, crisp apples, stopping to snack on a juicy delight every few hours, and happily tossing the red and green gems into a quaint wicker basket.  What we often block out in our memories, though, is the two-hour drive, the millions of bees that you have to dodge, the heavy bushels that nobody wants to carry, and the hundreds of others who had the exact same idea that you did.  Moreover, you pick more apples in five minutes than you could ever consume in one season, and so the majority end up rotting in the basement. However, the absence of apple picking in my life does not mean a shortage of apples.  I don’t know about you, but I eagerly await the two to three month window when honeycrisp apples are available, and as soon as I heard rumors that they had arrived at Whole Foods, I hopped in the beast and took a special trip to get the first pickings.  Let me tell you, they are SO worth the wait.  I think about them all day, and I am back to eating three plus apples a day. 

Speaking of food, my mom and I are currently setting up for break-fast.  On Yom Kippur, Jews all over the world begrudgingly starve themselves for twenty-four hours for the holiday, avoiding the kitchen in an effort not to tempt themselves.  The ideal game plan is to go to bed early, wake up late, go to services, come home, sit on the couch, sleep some more, and then force yourself to sit still until break fast rolls around.  My mom and I, however, are not so lucky.  You see, we host break-fast at our house, which means that we come home from services and get to prepare food all day.  The smells, the delicious-looking treats, everything you don’t want to smell and touch and look at when you cannot eat it.  It’s sort of like being forced to sit in a fur coat next to a swimming pool in the middle of July.  I think I just heard my stomach grumble. 

Which brings me to my next tradition: the overabundance of food.  My family loves to eat, but my mom has usually buys enough food to feed a small country rather than a medium-sized family.  Everyone eats their fill, and somehow we are left eating bagels, smoked salmon, quiche, and fruit salad for two weeks afterwards, as well as forcing our friends to take some of the food to their own homes.  My friends never mind when I try to force good Jewish comfort food at them, and it’s something that I’ve become quite used to.  But the best part of the break-fast dinner is the battle of the kugels.   If you have never eaten kugel, I genuinely feel bad for you.  It is the most heavenly food I have ever tasted; I’m starting to get excited just thinking about it.  Kugel is a noodle dish that has egg, cinnamon, and tender love and care saturating each and every bite.  My grandmother and my great aunt both make killer kugels, and they bring them to break fast.  It becomes a silent battle as we all periodically walk through the kitchen to see which dish is emptier, and who will win the battle that year.  Each family tends to stick with their own competitor, so in the end it tends to be a tie.  But who knows? Maybe there will be an upset this year. 

If you are looking to treat yourself as a beginning of the New Year present, or to show someone else that you care, buy a tote bag!  They are perfect for apple picking and smuggling leftovers home from a dinner party that has way too much food.  So on that note, I wish you all a happy new year filled with love, happiness, and kugel.  


-Emma

Hunks and Tarts

You have heard plenty about my family.  I have gone into great detail about the ins and outs of our daily lives, jokes, habits, and all of the weird parts of our personalities.  But I realized that I have yet to talk about my friends.  Now, my friends and I have our own set of strange habits and common interests, but I think that we first bonded over sushi.  I have never met any people who are more willing to go out of their way to find good sushi than my friends.  We often go to Sushi House twice in one weekend, and it seriously would not surprise me if the waiters there recognized us.  We should win some sort of award for best customers.  Except I think that they secretly hate us because we always ask for separate checks, and there are always complications when that happens. 

The next thing that we all love is The Lord of the Rings.  I know, many of you are judging me from your computer, but when it comes to epic trilogies, The Lord of the Rings  cannot be beaten.  It has it all: quaint villages, wizards, made-up languages, good-looking elves, gigantic elephants, and a rockin’ good soundtrack.  We all love and frequently quote the movies, although I admit I have not read the books.  But recently, when we were watching The Lord of the Rings The Fellowship of the Ring, the movie sparked a new conversation: Hunks and Tarts. 

This is a conversation that we have been having for weeks now, and it began when we were studying the food that the hobbits eat.  They have the most delicious looking tarts! So we were all saying that tarts are the best foods, when one of my friends pointed out that tarts come second only to hunks.  No, I am not talking about attractive muscular men.  I am talking about large, rustic-looking pieces of food on a giant wood table.  A good hunk of homemade bread, or a nice hunk of meat sitting next to a plate of fresh fruit, most enjoyed when the person eating is surrounded by or wearing furs.  I know this sounds weird, and I do not support wearing animal furs, but picture a feast in a pirate movie.  Take Pirates of the Caribbean, for example.  They sit down to a table covered in hunks of good, hearty-looking food.  And I don’t even like meat!

Hunks and Tarts also reminds me of our latest project: the Supper Club.  Two of my friends planned a back-to-school dinner party, and they cooked us a delicious Italian meal.  So we thought, why not do this every month?  We decided to pair up and each group would make a themed meal for everyone at the end of the month.  We are doing Indian food, breakfast, and, of course, hunks and tarts. 

What would I be without my friends?  They are the best, and they are always here for me.  So when I want to get them a great gift for their birthdays or the holidays, I know what all of them will love: a tote bag!  When you want to treat your friends and show them that you care about them, you know what you can do for them.  Give them the gift that they can carry and that they will love, a great bag with plenty of room for hunks and tarts. 

-Emma

Skadoosh!

I come from a family of exercisers.  We go on vacation and still show up at the gym at 8:00 am, on a late day.  We walk everywhere, due to my mom’s insistence, as she thinks any two points connected by land are within walking distance.  This morning, I accompanied my mom to her Sunday spin class.  I don’t know if any of you have ever taken spin, but it is DEATH. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great workout and I love doing it, but while you are on that bike you want nothing more than to curl up in a ball on the floor and pass out. 

This was not my first spin class.  That was on vacation and we thought it would be fun to take a class in the workout facility one afternoon.  We were not aware, though, that we would be the only ones to sign up for spin.  So there we were.  Just the four of us with an instructor who didn’t speak English and spent the whole class barking, “Andale!” at us.  Fifteen minutes in and we were all panting like diseased animals and sloppily wiping the sweat from our foreheads with our towels.  All of us except for my mother. Against all laws of nature, my mom does not sweat.  She occasionally gets a faint glow, but never a droplet. 

My mom loved it,  and started going regularly at the gym near our house.  She was so excited the first time she took it.  She came home and said, “It was so hard it even made my elbows sweat!” which, for my mom, is a huge deal.  So she has been attending religiously since, and we even bought her special spin shoes for her birthday.  So intense.  I didn’t take spin again for a year and a half, until my mom coaxed me into a 90-minute torture session on Thanksgiving last year.  Sure I felt better afterwards, and it COMPLETELY justified Thanksgiving dinner, but still. It hurt.

If we are going to talk about the family workout plan, I have to tell you about Don.  Don is a weight instructor and my parents have worked out with him for years.  Jake decided last summer that it was time to get buff, so he started working out with him too.  That just left me as the family weakling, until this summer when I, too, began to work out with Don.  Now, Don has become a household legend. He only cares about the Chicago Bears, and eats meat and tuna fish for breakfast.  He can bench hundreds of pounds but has four little min-pins for pets.  So I was eager to meet him.  And when I did, he already knew 90% of my life from what the rest of my family had told him.  But that’s not the best part.  My mom and Don have come up with nicknames for everyone in the family, and they are all pretty good.  My mom is Walking Lady, or WL for short, due to her obscene amount of walking.  My dad is Scotch Man, SM, because he once thought he had a better workout because he had a bit of scotch the night before.  Jake is Late Kid, LK, due to his sleeping schedule keeping him from early morning sessions.  My nickname was a bit harder to come up with, but my mom had an epiphany and it stuck: Casper.  I am so pale that I joke about being translucent. Once I walked in to Don’s a few days after getting a manicure and he said, “Wow, it’s good that you got a dark color on your nails because now I can tell that you have hands!”  Yup.  So that’s me, Casper the friendly ghost. 

 The latest addition to the Silverman workout tradition, however, is nothing more than a word: Skadoosh.  Jake came home from school saying it, and nobody has any idea what it means.  But it is the one word that encompasses all of the magic of a great workout.  It says, “Yeah, I might be sweating like a pig, but I still look good because I am a beast.”

So we all know that working out requires many supplies.  Water, shoes, towels (well, except for my mom).  And you can’t carry all of that stuff by hand.  So when you are looking for the perfect workout bag, you know where to find one.  Buy a tote bag, take it to the gym, and you’re set.  Skadoosh!

-Emma

  

Supper Club

I graduated! No, not from high school, silly.  From the Susan Silverman Culinary Institute.  So I am finally somewhat proficient in a kitchen.  Last night, Jake and I had our end of summer/proving we can cook celebration with our family.  We planned a meal to cook for our parents, and we spent all of yesterday in the kitchen.  I had plenty to prove, because nobody in my family had any confidence in my cooking skills.  When I suggested to Jake that we make dinner for our parents (it was actually my mom’s idea) he responded quite bluntly with, “No! You’re a terrible cook!”  So it took some convincing, but I got him to do it.

The menu consisted of guacamole, tomato and feta salad, grilled chicken, and chocolate-peanut butter cupcakes.  I handled the salad and the cupcakes and Jake tackled the rest.  We ended up with a great dinner, and aside from me burning my arm on the oven door, there were no disasters! 

All of this got me thinking about the end of summer.  I have officially become a not-so-horrible cook after months of practice, and now it is time to say goodbye to a wonderful summer.  Jake is leaving soon for his semester in Washington D.C., school starts next week, and the leaves are changing.  Well, not yet, but you get the idea.  It’s that time of the year again.  Time to put your bathing suits away and shove your extra sunscreen in the back of a storage closet.  (But if, like me, you have translucent skin, you can keep the sunscreen out for a few more weeks.) 

Not everything about the start of fall is bad though.  I mean, come on now, let’s talk about fall clothing!  I have been anxiously eyeing my sweaters for weeks now, hoping desperately for just one chilly day to throw on my favorite oversized wool v-neck.  And even though this may sound a little weird, I can’t wait to start wearing socks again.  I don’t think many of you know this, but socks are my favorite article of clothing.  I have a monumental collection of thick wool hiking socks, tube socks, knit socks, knee-highs, ankle socks, men’s socks, you name it.  But seriously, my feet have been going through withdrawal.  So there’s that to live for.

But with the start of fall and, for many of you, school, what will you be desperately in need of?  A tote bag of course! Something large and sturdy enough to carry your books in, but also stylish and clad in fall colors.  Luckily you have come to the right place. So when you are planning your fall wardrobe, don’t forget to get a new bag.

-Emma

Tradition

This week is all about tradition: The Mother-Daughter Weekend. Every year, my mom and I go on a pilgrimage to the city for one night during the summer, usually in August.  We have been doing this for six years, so we have it down to a science.  We have learned from past experiences, and have perfected our routine.  The weekend starts with a full day of power shopping.  And trust me, I am not exaggerating when I use the word “power.”  For weeks leading up to the date, we cut out articles in magazines and newspapers about new stores, cool areas, and killer sales.  We compile a list of all the stores that we must hit, and those that we could stop at if we have extra time. List in hand, we set out in the morning and shop until I start to feel a bit dizzy. 

Next, we check into the hotel, drop our stuff, and set out for dinner.  We eat and then walk around downtown Chicago for a bit before returning to the hotel for a movie.  We scan the list of movies that the hotel offers, usually choosing one that both of us hate and later regret watching.  But that is no matter, because my mom always falls asleep within the first hour.  This year, however, was different.  I looked over at her three-fourths into The Lovely Bones (which, by the way, we both enjoyed) and saw that she was still awake.  I think that I actually did a double take because I was so shocked and dumbfounded.  This is the woman that fell asleep during The Bourne Identity when it was blaring in our living room with surround-sound.  So that was a first.

More importantly than any of this, however, are pillow auditions.  Now, pillow auditions are not unique to this weekend, as they occur every time my mom leaves the house for a night.  Nevertheless, this is the perfect opportunity to talk about them, as I witnessed them on this particular trip.  My mom is extremely picky about her pillows, and a pillow can either make or break her night.  So just as she is about to fall asleep, she lines up all the pillows in the room and tests them out one by one.  And when I say all the pillows, I really mean it.  Not just those on her side of the bed, but everyone’s pillows must face my mom’s cruel judgment.   As the pillows wait nervously on the side, my mom plucks one from the pile and places it on the bed.  She begins the session by rolling back and forth across the soft white cushion, but then begins to thrash violently about, so much so that I often get up and watch from the other side of the room.  She then insults the pillow, saying things like “Ugh! Horrible!”  and throws the poor thing to the floor, where I pick it up and try to comfort the dejected little cushion.  I swear, sometimes I can hear them sniffling in the corner.  She also has different categories for the pillows.  The overly soft ones are called “tushie pillows” because they enclose your face from the sides.  And the “potato sacks” are the lumpy ones.  I got stuck with a potato sack on this trip. 

All joking aside, this overnight trip called for a bag that I could take shopping, carry some of my clothes in, and take to dinner.  Can you guess which one I chose?  That’s right, my tote bag.  So when you find yourself going on a weekend trip and you need a bag to do the job, you know where to find one!

-Emma 

Make It Work!

This past Friday afternoon was magical.  Why, you might ask?  Well, the answer is simple: Project Runway.  I had just finished my last day of work, and I was exhausted to say the least.  I drove home, and sat in the car for a moment outside my house, thinking.  The day was a bit overcast, and the air was hot and sticky.  Not a particularly nice day, and it all felt sort of gloomy and sad.  I kept thinking that I should have had something to look forward to at home that day, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.  I walked in the house, cut up an apple, and went into the family room.  I flipped through the channels, not finding anything interesting.  I perused the list of shows we had recorded, and that’s when I saw it: a new episode of Project Runway.  Immediately, I leapt off of the couch and went to find my mom.  “THERE IS A NEW SEASON OF PROJECT RUNWAY ON!!!!”  She dropped what she was doing, and together we scurried to the family room to start the show.  Giddily, I pressed play and we sat, mesmerized, for the next hour, only discussing our likes and dislikes during commercial breaks.  Like I said, it was magical.

This tradition goes way back.  My mom and I religiously watch the show as soon as I get home from school on Fridays.  So the emptiness that I felt in the car resulted from the absence of this sacred practice.  We watch each season with the deepest interest and the most careful analysis.  As each season ends, we grow sad at the loss of such a happy ritual, but eagerly await the next cycle. 

The last time a season began, I was in the car driving home from dance.  I was listening to the radio, which is extremely rare given that I only listen to mix CDs.  Thus, it was fate that I should be flipping through stations just in time to hear a commercial for a new season of Project Runway that was starting that night.  I picked up my phone to call my mom immediately, and she was so happy that she did not even bother to scold me for being on the phone while driving, also a rare feat. 

Project Runway is more than just a weekly event for my mom and me.  Even Jake loves it!  His female friends used to sucker him into watching it, but I really don’t think he minded.  He would sometimes meander into the family room when my mom and I were watching and stay until the end of the episode.  He also does a mean impression of Tim Gunn.  We all love to offer a good, “make it work” or “go go go!” every once in a while, but Jake’s impression takes the cake. 

So where does this all tie in with the bags?  All great outfits require superb accessories, and what better to accessorize with than a cute bag!  When you are getting ready to go out and you need that perfect purse to go with your look, you know where to find one. Choose your accessories carefully, and make it work!

-Emma

Wild Things

Last weekend, I took a little trip into my past.  My favorite childhood book is Where the Wild Things Are; my dad used to read it to me all the time.  We were both very excited when the movie came out last year, but we could never find the time to see it in theaters.  So last Sunday night, my mom, dad, and I cleared our schedules to watch the DVD.  I don’t know if any of you have seen it, but, spoiler alert: it is pretty sad.  I think that my mom was the most affected.  She said that she still felt depressed the next day.  She just felt so bad for all of the Wild Things, and said that they really broke her heart.  While I shared her feelings, I was shocked that she was so sympathetic to a wild animal. Because my mother is not a fan of anything that crawls.  No, this was quite a contrast to her real world opinion of animals.  Maybe she loves giant furry monster-like creatures named Carol, but my mom is no friend to the everyday critter.  At all. 

My mom’s animosity towards the animal kingdom began a long time ago, before I was born.  Somehow, my dad convinced her to go on a camping trip with him.  And, being the roughing-it-experts that they are, they left s’mores out on the table.  You can guess what happened next.  They refer to that fateful evening as “the night of 1000 raccoons.”  Needless to say, my mom does not love raccoons.

The worst atrocity came about 6 years ago.  Again, the culprit was a raccoon, and this time the little devil had the nerve to die in our attic.  I mean, honestly, who does he think he is?  We figured it out when our home began to smell like a morgue, and it turns out that he had gotten himself so far in that we had to call the professionals.  That’s right, they had to cut a whole in our roof in order to remove the carcass.  Ew! So there goes strike two.

After that was the skunk. My mom read an article in the Chicago Tribune about a family in Highland Park whose house was completely ruined by a skunk who wiggled his way into the air conditioning system.  She thought about the horror for a full day, so it was only fitting that she should smell a skunk in our own yard 24 hours later.  My mom was not willing to gamble with our home, so she took no chances.  She called in reinforcements to cage up that bad boy.  Poor little guy, he never had a chance.  He was a goner. 

To bring the story full circle, our gardener informed my mom the other day that there were traces of an animal living in our backyard.  Immediately, my mom shifted into terminator mode.  She thought and worried about it for another 24 hours before asking the gardener what could be done to drive the intruder out.  He told my mother that sometimes sprinkling red pepper flakes does the job.  Before she even hung up the phone, my mom was digging through the spice cabinet looking for her hottest pepper flakes.  She shook them out all over the yard, and ended up using half of the bottle.  Take that, mystery Wild Thing.

I am going to be honest with you, there is no catchy or shameless way that I can tie this back to the bags.  So I am not even going to try.  But I will leave you with this: buy a bag. 

-Emma