PurlJew

Apparently, I'll Fall in Love in July

Really. That's what my astrologer says.

(I don't have my own personal astrologer; my mom's longtime best friend is a professional astrologer and gives me a reading every year for my birthday. Scoff if you will, but they are amazingly accurate.)

So, yeah, love in July, major growth and development for the next year, a sense of freedom, big time illumination re: the whole vocation/ life purpose thingee. All the stars are pointing to good things headed my way.

Except for my haircut, which is Way Too Short. It is Jean Seberg-pixie, but unfortunately I'm a little too...ermm...how shall we say..curvy to pull it off. I do wear it short, but soft short, if you get what I mean. I went to a new hairdresser today, who took me seriously when I said I didn't want to have to get my hair cut for a few months. Granted, there was a serious mullet issue developing in the back, but now I feel we've stepped too far in the opposite direction. Oh well. Hair does grow, and I at least get to avoid the potential nightmare of haircuts in Israel for a little while longer.

My apartment is a leeetle cleaner today. The nasty rug/ cat hair catcher has been taken to the Dumpster, almost everything has a box or will be in a box or given away or something like that. (Or else I'll just chuck it into a box and make my little sister deal with it if she wants to live in my apartment without paying rent. I think that's fair.) The goal is to be done, with everything packed and everything stored or shipped or whatever, by Friday in time for Shabbat, so I can have the weekend to relax and hang out with my family.

And new things came today, too! Robin forced me (well, she told me to stock up on yarn, so you can see how she twisted my arm over at Knitpicks) to order all this:

This, in that nice purpley-stripe color;

Some of this, in New England;

And lots of this, in Star Gazer Lily, Zinnia, and Geranium--really, I love this sock yarn and you should totally try it. Actually, I've loved everything I've ever ordered from Knitpicks. I would call it my personal crack dealer, but last night I discovered Morehouse Merino, and honey, it's all over but the shouting.

What Does It Really Mean When You Like Bookstores?

Picture this, if you will:

We've all gone out as a staff to a Japanese restaraunt to partake of the sushi buffet (I don't really like it because they charge you $1 for every piece you leave on your plate, and that's just too much pressure) and it's nice. It's fun. A. has just cracked a raunchy joke, and we're all having a nice, relaxed time. (And by the way, some necessary points of context: I am the only woman on staff. The general tone of conversation is, shall we say, not refined. It is, rather, limited to baseball/ ball-oriented sport of the season/ sports/ general mockery. It is, also, shall we say, generally devoted to making fun of everyone else. It is therefore, not all that uplifting or fun to be at work. Also, just so you know, there was a Borders across from the restaraunt.)

And we're talking and eating and like I said, having a fun time, and I say, "well, I want to go to Borders and hang out", and everyone started teasing me gently, because of course your friend PurlJew is a lifelong bookworm nerd dork, and bookstores are second only to shoe and yarn stores in terms of places she likes to spend time. And then, AG, who is by the way a friend of a few years, says, "You know what they call people who like bookstores? Single for life."

Well. It was a punch to the gut. It was so mean. Look, if you've got a giant bruise on your arm, do I hover over you and push at it just to see if it still hurts? No? Well, being single is the outstanding bruise on my soul at this point in my life, so if we could not make fun of it in front of all our coworkers, that'd be great. I'd be well-chuffed if you could do that.

I was so upset I couldn't even look at anyone for the rest of lunch. And although AG did apologize (and then he burned himself on his grill when he made dinner that night, which, as he admitted, was karmic comeuppance) it made me feel like shit. Because even though parts of me understand and fully believe that somewhere out there there's a man looking for a woman who knits obsessively, prefers to watch Masterpiece Theatre instead of football, really isn't that into the outdoors, likes cats, wants a lot of kids, and prefers reading above almost all things, parts of me also feel like really all any possessor of a penis wants is huge tits, low intellect, and the ability to jam one's fist in one's mouth. And that ain't me.

(Not that I would ever be with a man whose list of preferences ran like that. But still. When you stand firmly outside the norm, it's so easy to think that not only is the norm easier, it must be better, too.) (Because otherwise it wouldn't be the norm, right?)

PurlJew is getting up there in years, you see, and beginning to feel that giving up hope would be easier and gentler on her delicate spirit. And besides, all her coupled-up friends say that you have to give up hope before you can find someone, which has always struck her as a giant load of hooey, because how can you know when you've truly given up hope? Aren't you then hoping that you've finally given up hoping?

Sigh. Double triple sigh.