Combining My Two Great Loves: Shoes and Journals

Let's face it: I am obsessed with journals. I'll disagree with the claim my dear mother always makes that I'll "never be able to finish all those journals!" but it did take me seven years to fill eighteen. Then again, I guess eighteen is a pretty substantial number. And that's roughly how many blank journals await me in a box that's tucked away in my room. Talk to me when I'm 27.

The reason I'll never fill all my journals is because I doubt I can ever muster the self-control to buy at the rate I write. Or write at the rate I buy, for that matter. Snagging one journal a season? No way. If I see one I like, I'll buy the whole series. Continuity, I tell you!

Regardless, I've fallen in love with Paperblanks. I filled two last summer and I loved both of them. And so, as I often do to avoid real work, I surfed around their Web site to check out the available styles. And I must say, I think I need all four of the "Fabulous Footwear" collection. Or at least just the High-Button Boot. Add it to my wish list, folks!

Reclaiming Home.

"Home" is always a very loose term when you're a resident college student. Some people say, "hey, I'm heading home," and walk back to their sterile dorm room. Others use the same phrase and hop on a plane, train, or bus to visit family and friends in what is often the land of their youth.

As much as I love school life, it's still school life. I feel comfortable in my dorm room, but it's not home. Home is where my mom is making cupcakes and my dogs are fighting me for the couch they've claimed since I've been away at school. It's pumping the "Spring Blossom" hand sanitizer in my bathroom and smelling what home smells like. But perhaps the most important part of home, my very own bedroom to do with whatever I please, doesn't greet me with the same fondness as my hyperactive pups or my welcoming mother. Why?

We moved. In May of my senior year in high school, we moved a couple of towns over. Long enough to unpack boxes and situate furniture before my late August departure, but not quite long enough, when spliced up by a 12-day trip to Italy and frequent commuting to the Jersey Shore, to create the perfect sanctuary.

Especially when I never quite unpacked everything, and the boxes multiplied as my stuff continued to collect on the floor of my closet, and my dresser conveniently fell apart during my first month at school, causing my mother to package all of its contents in plastic bins before shipping it off elsewhere. And so here I sit, on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by twenty three--nope, missed one: twenty four--plastic bins, filled with roughly a third of my life. Don't ask me where I got that proportion, I'd never be able to tell you.

And so I wonder, how does one reclaim home in six days or less? I'm home for an extended long weekend (oh, the joys of national holidays, Jewish holidays, and convenient college scheduling, all working together in perfect harmony.) That's my project for the week. Wish me luck.

Far off places, daring swordfights, magic spells, a prince in disguise!

On a visit to Morningside Heights this afternoon, I stumbled upon an adorable bookshop on 114th and Broadway called Morningside Bookshop. It's the quintessential bookshop: floor to ceiling stuffed shelves and ladders on every wall. I picked up a half-price book outside on the sidewalk--Women Who Shop Too Much: Overcoming the Urge to Splurge by Carolyn Wesson--sure to be the topic of an upcoming blog post!

"From one laptop owner to another..."

Bringing your own power strip to Starbucks. Genius. I'm like a Boy Scout, always prepared--why didn't I think of that?

Covet.

The Stuart Weitzman 'Puente' in black suede and red patent is the first shoe in a while to actually make me drool. I had to be torn from the window of the Columbus Circle store after hours by a friend who claimed, "that is way too much for a pair of shoes." Lies. He's just jealous they don't come in his size.

I'm a size 7, by the way, and they look fabulous on my feet, for anyone who's into random acts of kindness.

A New Jew's First Shabbat Service

My friend Cat and I have been talking about going to a Shabbat service all year, but we're both busy college students and could never find a Friday evening when we were both free. With finals starting next week, our schedules finally matched up and we attended our first Shabbat service in Manhattan. Well, my first Shabbat service ever. Which is precisely why I refused to go alone.

I'm not going to lie, I do consider myself Jewish, but at this point, it's kind of more "barely Jewish". I was born Jewish but raised Catholic, which is just a confusing happenstance all around. I've been "finding myself" since I got to college, if you'll forgive the cliché, and decided to give this Judaism thing a try. I've been doing lots of reading, but the books don't tell you exactly how to be a good Jew. But maybe I'm just reading the wrong books.

Regardless, going to my first service that wasn't a Bar or Bat Mitzvah was an intimidating experience. I asked Cat what I should wear and she wasn't sure herself. So I flipped to the Shabbat section of Jewish Literacy. Nothing. Cat was sure to remind me last week, for my first seder, that I had to cover my shoulders, so I figured that would be a safe bet for this night as well. Was I supposed to make sure my knees weren't exposed, either? I'm still learning and I'm terrified of being inadvertently disrespectful. So I Googled Shabbat attire, settled on a black short sleeve shirtdress and two inch heels, and headed to go meet Cat.

We followed the crowd and stood outside for a while, mentioning to a few people that we were new to this congregation and asking for tips. A board member sat us down and welcomed us to ask any questions.

I was never a good Catholic, but part of my idea of religious services still reverts automatically back to the Catholic church. I was somehow almost surprised that there weren't pews, but rather seats arranged in a radiating circle outward from the center. "Much more comfortable than pews, right?" Cat joked. I picked up the Siddur and Cat reminded me that it's not ever supposed to touch the floor, and if it does, I'd have to kiss it. I noticed a guy to my right look horrified to see one on the floor, pick it up, kiss it, and clutch it for the remainder of the service.

The website said there would be transliterations for those "not comfortable with reading Hebrew." Maybe we should have asked for that. Because the Siddurim we had only contained Hebrew and English translations. Cat could hold her own, but I was just focused on being proud of myself for knowing which way to turn the pages on the first try.

I have to say, my favorite part of the service, apart from the downright beauty of the synagogue itself and the enchanting voice of the female rabbi, was when, suddenly, half the congregation got up and started dancing. This definitely never happened in any Catholic church that I'd heard of. Cat and I were tempted to join in, but our sore feet and heels thought otherwise, so we remained intrigued onlookers.

All in all, though I had no idea what was going on for 98 percent of the service, I enjoyed myself. And even the self-conscious part of me felt assured that no one was pointing and staring, asking "who's that girl and why isn't she doing this right?" Which is precisely why I love Judaism. Even though I know even less of the rituals than I did in Catholicism (which is saying something--I could do the sign of the cross and sometimes remembered to say "and also with you" when someone reached out a hand and said, "peace be with you," but anything outside of that, I was lost) I have never felt judged. I didn't go to mass when I was younger because I didn't know what I was doing and felt that everyone was judging me. But every Jew I've ever spoken to has made it a point to tell me that Judaism is about learning, not about getting it right the first time.

So I may not have gotten it right the first time, certainly not with my attempts to keep kosher for Passover and then enjoying cookie dough ice cream and General Tso's chicken, but I'm learning. And that's the important thing.