Esther Kustanowitz
This user hasn't shared any profile information
Posts by Esther Kustanowitz
Saying “I Love You”–Hah, Hah…
2There’s nothing like that moment when you and your sweetie say “I love you” for the first time. (Or so I’ve heard.) It can be nerve-wracking, emotional, and…funny?
Renatt Brodsky, a freelance writer, is working on an upcoming Glamour story about women aged 20-35 who have comical stories about saying “I love you” for the first time. And she’s asked JDaters Anonymous for our help:
We need the women to still be with the guys and have happy endings. The women can be telling about their own “I love you” misfires, or about that of the guy they are currently with. Like women who said I love you during a loud moment in a concert or movie or fireworks show then had to scream it to him, only for the noise to stop and everyone to turn around, or a guy who called his girlfriend and blurted out I love you as soon as she answered, but it ended up
being the wrong number.Here’s an example of one that works: “I had been dating my now-husband for a few months when I decided to tell him how I felt about him. The only problem? I was half-asleep at the time. So I roused myself semi-awake, rolled over, and said: ‘I love you… Milk.’ His name is Mike.” – Nina Johnson, 30, Rio Rancho, New Mexico
Personally, I think that story would be funnier if his name was Milk, and she accidentally called him “Mike.”
If you or any female you know has a funny story to share with Glamour please email Renatt the following information by Tuesday, 10 a.m.:
1. first and last name
2. age
3. city, state
4. email and number
5. Your comical story in two paragraphs- When did you say I love you, and Why did it end up being so hysterical?
And remember to tell her you’re a reader of JDaters Anonymous…
And if you meet any nice Jewish guys named “Milk,” please send them my way; I’d be happy to date them just for the comedy value.
Has a Movie Inspired You To Change Your Life?
2If you’re from somewhere other than NJ or NY, Glamour Magazine wants to know, has a movie inspired you to change your life?
Writer Renatt Brodsky’s looking for a few good movie-related epiphanies: For an upcoming Glamour story, I’m looking for women ages 20-40 (who are not from NEW JERSEY or NEW YORK), who have have had a life-epiphany based on seeing a movie. In a nutshell, I want to know how seeing a particular movie inspired you to alter your life. We already have a few options for career-changing movies. We are now looking for movie epiphanies related to * love * family relationships * something personal (ex/ weight/health; drinking; self-confidence; etc.)
If this sounds like you or a woman you know please have her email me the following by tomorrow, Thursday, 7/7 by 3:30 p.m.:
1. first and last name
2. age
3. city, state
4. email and number
5. Your story- What movie inspired you to alter your life? How so?
Personally, it was Pretty Woman that inspired me to move to NYC (because LA was
too far and too hot) and try my hand (and my everything else) at prostitution,
but I’m from NY, so Renatt doesn’t want my story.
If you contact her, tell her Esther sent you!
This Week’s Clips
0I’ve been published a few times this week, on everything from my nephew to vacation, with a smattering of Jewtopia thrown in for good measure. Read, enjoy, and comment away!
The Boy Who Changed Everything
From the second I laid eyes on him, that phrase about having known and loved him before I met him suddenly made perfect sense. He’s a relative heavyweight; but I’m still way taller. He’s a new player on the stage of my life, but fits perfectly into the family I’ve always known. We’ve all literally and figuratively embraced him, even though all he does is look around at this new, exciting world, demand sustenance, and poop on us.
For more of this week’s First Person Singular column, click here.
Sole Searching
Even after many of us have graduated from an academic calendar, we think of July and August as the time to escape: to leave the countless papers on our desks for innumerable, sprawling seaside sands. It is a time of sun-filled getaways, SPF 45, and bathing suit anxiety. We look forward to letting our hair down and taking our clothes off, to whatever extent we wish. We court relaxation like a soulmate, and hedonism as if it’s our last night of freedom…
…Would we be able to free our City selves from the code of acceptable behavior as mandated by our tight-knit, seemingly omniscient Jewish community, and embrace the possibility of relative debauchery? It wasn’t like Turks and Caicos was Vegas; there was no advertised assurance that what happened here would stay here. What if we “went wild”? Would the video proof of our adventures end up on the Internet? At shul board meetings? Would reputations be damaged? Jobs lost? And would any of us care?
The above is excerpted from “Vacation: A Spiritual Retrospective” (my “Sole Searching” spirituality column at GenerationJ.com). To read the column in its entirety, click here.
“Jewtopia’s†co-creators Bryan Fogel and Sam Wolfson, who also co-star in
the play, were just finishing up the script for “Jewtopia: The Movie,†when a
book agent saw their show and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.
“We weren’t even thinking about it,†said Wolfson. But the agent was
persistent. “He hounded us … ‘I can get you a deal,’ he said. He got every
publisher out and started a bidding war; it was supposed to be a small kitschy
paperback, but it got so much heat that it’s going to be a hardcover
[WarnerBooks won the bidding war, and the book is slated for September 2006
release].â€Â
“Jewtopia: The Book,†Wolfson explains, will include “silly stuff from the play, but in more detail; like Jon Stewart’s ‘America: The Book,’ with graphs, charts etc., but for Jews.â€Â
For more, see this Jewish Week article by a fairly prolific writer. Of course, most of you have already read about the book deal here. And still others of you will remember this column. No, Sam and Bryan are not paying me to promote them. (But maybe they should…)
Your scrolling bonus: three stories I posted to Jewlicious and one from My Urban Kvetch…
This Space for Rent: A woman rents out her forehead to be tattooed with the name of an online casino
Man Rents Billboard to Find a Wife: This post at My Urban Kvetch has started some interesting discussion on whether renting a billboard is or isn’t an effective way to find a spouse. Come on over and participate in the conversation…
Hummus is Potentially Trayf: An argument over whether tehina used in making hummus is kosher if ground by a non-Jew.
Could Lead to Dancing: The Wednesday night Israeli dancing scene at the 92nd Street Y. (Postscript to this: a friend of mine went and said the scene was pathetic, so it’s possible much of this article was spin.)
That’s the egomaniacal Week in Me.
More undoubtedly to come…for which I apologize in advance.
Jewish Bloggers in the World Jewish Digest
3Ever wonder how blogging changed my life? Wonder no more.
Want to hear the founders of Jewlicious and other popular Jewish blogs talk about their reasons for blogging, rendered sensitively and beautifully by Chayyei Sarah? Sate your hunger for blogformation.
Click on, my blogbrothers and blogsisters.
On Kissing and Not Kissing and Other Stuff
2I’ve got readers who kiss and readers who don’t. Whatever the reasons, religious or lack of opportunity or desire. But when Miss Fish writes about kissing, you just want to go out and do it. (Or maybe that’s just me. In any case, it probably has nothing to do with the little imp-girl she met while she was out the other night.)
On the flip side, there’s P-Life, going all passionate in his head. Turns out he met a girl who’s also passionate in her head. And they’re being all expressive and stuff:
Today we did a meditation exercise and it turned out that – when I was supposed to see my soul on its own light I couldn’t at all – your soul was so attached to mine that I couldn’t see my soul on her own. Saw us together as one. Sounds scary to verbalize it…
And in a completely different vein, Anna Broadway, “enjoying” (or at least answering) lots of reader letters after her appearance in the Rolling Stone article about the new virginity movement, gets down and chaste (and as always intellectual) about being Queen of the Castle and why other should be Master of their Own Domains. (And I don’t mean domain names. Those can be purchased from GoDaddy.)
And a roundup wouldn’t be a roundup without visits to H, who’s over at Slay Your Demons taking on weak online dating profiles; Annabel Lee, who’s ducking the usual JDate inappropriates; and Ari, who almost took a homeless guy back to her apartment for some lovin’ and warns mothers everywhere to hide their sons.
“A Kiddush for All the Single Women in the World”
1I love a good shidduch (match). In this case, the shidduch was between a post on Jewlicious and Daphna, a single woman in Jerusalem. The post informed the Jewlicious public about Reb Chaim’s Worldwide Kiddush, a Shabbat kiddush happening in the Old City of Jerusalem in honor of all the single women in the world; through out the eating and drinking those in attendance would be “collecting” mazal-tovs (congratulatory wishes) and hopefully, those mazal-tovs would speed the arrival of soulmates for those who were single and searching.
If you’re skeptical, and this kind of event sounds like it was rife with potential to be overly heavy-handed and preachy, don’t worry. Daphna was hesitant too. In fact, on Jewlicious, she anticipated that it might be “[k]inda like the space aliens call when they beam down eerily seductive signals from their giant space ships so that they can suck you up and perform bizarre medical experiments on you before they send you back to your real life in which everyone will now think you are nuts apart from a couple groupies in Roswell.” (My response: who couldn’t use a spiritual anal probe these days?)
What happened? Read the full account on her blog. But suffice it to say that everyone won here: Daphna showed everyone how fearless and funny she is; Jewlicious gets the mitzvah points for making the shidduch; and Reb Chaim was able to facilitate a true spiritual encounter for a single woman. In Daphna’s own words:
If it is true that I really do not know whether I believe that what I did today will have any effect on my finding a beschert, it is also true that I walked away with the feeling that, if anyone might have a shot of pulling such a miracle out of the pocket of heaven, Reb Chaim would.
Faith can be so elusive. It’s nice to know that there are people reaching out and trying to make a difference in the lives of often-communally-neglected observant singles population.
Truth and Consequences (Salon)
1Anna Jane Grossman, of BreakupNews.com, on truth and online dating in Salon:
Meeting people on the Internet was nothing new to [LA resident Jessica] Walters, who had spent her high-school years talking to people all over the world in chat rooms. “I remember feeling like people were pretty straightforward about themselves when we’d chat,” she said. “They didn’t seem to be pretending they were something they weren’t.”
So when the first guy who contacted her through JDate revealed on his profile that he was only 5-foot-3, Walters assumed he was telling the truth.
I think we all know where the story goes from here. And it involves the words “Oompa Loompa.” (Not my joke; Walters’s.)
Read the rest of the story here. (And who’s that quoted on page 2?)
Friday Night Lights (new column)
0
When I was in college, Chabad made a huge push for Jewish women to light Shabbat candles every Friday night. If, for one solitary Sabbath, every Jewish woman in the world lit a pair of candles, the campus rabbi maintained, the unity and peace of that one worldwide act would bring the Messiah. Unfortunately, as
long as I live in my flammable little studio, I’m going to have to live with the fact that the continued imperfection of our pre-Messianic world may be my fault.
In case you haven’t seen it on My Urban Kvetch or in your own personal copy of The Jewish Week, here’s the link to my new column, Friday Night Lights.
Blogdentity Crisis
9Crisis may be too strong a word. But still, this blog has definitely changed.
When we first began in April 2004, this was our purpose:
There are thousands of us out here, in the online netherworld, shopping for love and companionship over the Internet…We have experienced the joy of an email from someone we thought we found interesting, only to be disappointed in real life. We have encountered people who lied about their height and interests. We have chatted with people online who seem witty with the 10-20 second IM delay, and moved the relationship to the phone, only to find that their conversational skills are clearly lacking. We have wondered how to handle the delicate situations we encounter, and have sought advice from friends. Now, there’s one more friend to consult…
The goal of this blog is to record our experiences, good and bad, of men and women, serial JDaters and novices, from NYC to L.A. and everywhere in between. When the muse inspires, there will be features, rants and raves on related subjects. But this is your blog, your forum. Speak.
I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t write about the people in my life, because it wasn’t fair to present a story that was half theirs, but strip them of their voices. Besides, just because the chemistry wasn’t right with me didn’t mean that person wouldn’t make a great boyfriend/husband/companion for someone else. The one time I wrote about a specific person in a blog post happened on My Urban Kvetch, and it was after a decade. And I had learned that he had just been married. And, just to be sure he was unrecognizable, I changed his name. I was extremely careful about such things.
As weeks and months wore on, with my commitment to being a neutral zone open to all and that wasn’t about me, content was less of the “speak and be heard” variety and more of a way for singles-columnist me to track trends and patterns in online and offline dating, with the occasional foray into “I can’t believe he (or she) did this (or that).”
But over the last several weeks, the content has changed*, and not in a manner that’s totally comfortable for me. And these are posts that I may yet live to regret, because they, in some small way, violate that promise I made to myself when I started blogging. I’m still not naming names or specifics. I’m writing about the emotional fallout from such encounters or expectations thwarted, often in so abstract a manner that it can confuse people who don’t know me.
I write as myself, under my own name, of my own experiences. I’m trying to reinforce my emotional fortitude by being more open about how I feel, writing my way through perceived and actual betrayals of whatever magnitude, and letting that come through in my writing. And at the same time, I’m trying to maintain the reputations of the people who, often through no real fault of their own, made me feel this way. Because the inquisition is all internal, it’s easy for me to write about what I’m feeling, and extremely difficult to push that “Publish” button. I’ve learned that with a few exceptions, people protect their own interests, and that’s a lesson I could stand to internalize, in moderation, at least.
I find myself wondering if this kind of writing does me a disservice, even if I don’t name names. Perhaps it would be better to slay my demons privately instead of expelling my disappointments into the blogosphere to land in the ears of the similarly disappointed. Perhaps I should refocus the blog on observing the trends and contributing snarky commentary that keeps everyone laughing, and feeling like they’ve found a community. But then again, the emotional posts seem to have found their own audience, and a network of support has reached back from an Internet void to embrace me and provide me with desperately-needed comfort.
I’ll have to give this some serious thought. Your feedback, as always, is welcome.
*The posts that inspired this one: The Single Gal’s Survival Guide…Up Late…Emotional Jetlag
Emotional Jetlag
14From 0 to 60 to 30,000 feet, I’m back at 0. Back to the standard yellow alert that keeps me on edge, but not frantic. Back to normal.
But somehow, normal seems nowhere near as normal as I remembered. I don’t know what I was expecting, but hometown doldrums are unaltered by departures and arrivals, by endless terminals that in name alone sound deadly, by points of origin and destinations that seem extremely different at journey’s start than they do after all the mileage has been accrued. It’s a short trip from optimism to pessimism, from elation to deflation. And during the trip entire, I’m still just me. As far as I’ve traveled, I’ve returned to a circumstance unaltered by my experiences.
Still, it’s a journey. I pass through insecurity, a checkpoint I am all too used to. Unshoeing myself, I feel my socks, the protectors of my tender toes, slip on shiny, happy linoleum. My footing unstable, I wonder if metal detectors can detect the slow, metallic hardening of a human heart. I dismiss the melodrama and put my shoes back on.
Dragging a suitcase, now with only one wheel functioning, I wondered: did my bag travel on hope, with optimism contained just within a zipped compartment? Or was it despair that kept my carry-on rolling on, in the knowledge that to stop would result in paralysis?
Then, the answer: hope and despair are too closely connected to separate. They are conjoined twins; one will die without the other. And that’s why distance can make you sad and proximity can make you sadder: because the closer you are, the more your heart feels the once and future distance.
In a wireless lounge, hope rebooted leads to some endless area of the undeveloped internet, where I am lost in the land of 404-filenotfounds of missed connections and opportunities. I can’t explain it away, argue it out of existence in front of a jury of my fears. I’m judge and defendant and prosecutor. Interpretation and reinterpretation are the soul purview of self, and the burden of justice weighs heavily.
It’s not just about him. Undoubtedly, the rawer, recent part of it is. But part of it is residual,–the infectious, previously latent remnants of the other disappointments that litter my mind, the other potentials who never actualized, never became anything of substance. Not fair to make him the lightning rod for decades’ disappointment; still I feared his reaction like terrorism. Somehow I knew that unspoken, my meaning would sweep by him as airborne intangible; he’d judge the longing as irrational, nonspecific and dismissable–even amid protestations of my greatness, dismissing me in the process.
Compared to war, hunger, crime, poverty, suffering, death…I know this disappointment is a luxurious indulgence, my grief only a whisper of a truer heartbreak: my caught breath and swallowed tears are hyberbolic nothing. But there’s no pretending that the sadness doesn’t go deep. Deeper than canyons seen from airplanes or betrayal or deceit or chasms of misunderstanding or relationships you overimagined.
Back then, I took in the ambiguity willfully, like clichés, or carbon monoxide. Part of me preferred to live with a desperate unstable hope in ambiguous silence. While uncertainty is torturous immobility, it also preserves possibility. In immobility, new wounds cannot be inflicted: past stays past, potential seems horizon-limitless, and futures seem more hopeful.
Instead, I seized the reins, demanded truth. Received my certainty with a side of heartbreak. Here, where I am now, feels like a place of impossible and insatiable thirstâ€â€tired and irritable, I’m parched for contact. In some moments, hairline fractures in my heart belabor vital breath and it feels like I’m eroding.
Now, having never begun, it’s over. Lesson learned: that if you ask for nothing you get nothing. But sometimes, even when you ask, you still get nothing.