you snooze, you lose?

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the hours in the day, and how I spend those hours. I went through a slump this December in which I calculated my day to a (pathetic) T: 9 hours spent working, 1 hour  spent commuting to and from work, 4 hours watching tv/cooking dinner/unwinding, and 10 hours in bed sleeping. Repeat times 31. I  realize now what I was unwilling to accept through the dead of the winter: I am not a bear. I cannot hibernate. I. MUST. DO. THINGS. I've been better about incorporating fun things into the daily grind--going to the gym, getting drinks after work, trying impossible workout classes (really Barre? wtf are you....). But there is one thing I haven't been able to shake: my epic,  50 minute long, two-alarms-set (one ringing every 4 minutes), morning snooze.

A doodle of me in my cozy, cozy bed. 

let there be light

After an already meaningful day exploring Prague's magic, I stumbled into a small English bookstore, tucked away in the windy cobblestone streets of the Mala Strana. It was dusk when I entered the store, with the shadow of the castle looming as the street lamps struggled to perform their duty. On a display table, in the middle of the cozy room, is where I first met Jonathan Safran Foer. I picked up Everything is Illuminated and was hooked, swept away to neighboring Ukraine, greeted by the often punctilious Alexander Perchov. I purchased the novel for 279 koruna and suspended my exploration for the evening, opting to curl up with my new book in my Prague apartment. As the weeks passed and the pages turned, the book traveled to Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Budapest and Krakow with me. I recall it being almost too much to bear reading as I left the gates of Auschwitz-Birkenau. Too much of a parallel, too close to real, too much feeling. When we escape into literature we do so to feel something different, to imagine ourselves elsewhere...but with the images of my ancestors burning alive echoed by such a harrowing and so poignant a narration, my mind was overloaded with sadness, for once crushed by the weight and burden of those who had come before me. No experience to date--not even multiple trips to Israel's holiest sites--has ever made me feel more Jewish and more aware of the gift/burden/wonder of my heritage. Four years later and I still feel acutely indebted to Jonathan Safran Foer for traveling with me and giving words to the sites, horrors and majesties that I myself was not large enough to comprehend.

let's get old, old fashioned

There are two things (making snow aside) that the midwest does very, very well: beer and cheese. And no place does it better than The Old Fashioned in Madison, Wisconsin. My first time at The Old Fashioned was in August 2011, right after Aaron accepted his job in Madison. The place was magical. Local cheeses, fried fish, craft beers on tap, prime outdoor seating in the shadow of the capital building, and all for an abominably low price. On every subsequent visit to Madison, I've consistently requested a meal here, usually on Friday nights to take advantage of the Fish Fry special. Half of the time my request is honored, the other half I'm begrudgingly convinced that there are other worthy restaurants in Madison to try. Yes, that is true, but even after an otherwise delicious meal, I find myself craving beer battered fried cheese curds (Mmmm even better after a few drinks!).

Resolutions, after all.

I tend to be unimpressed by all things New Year's Eve. December 31st marks a day full of reflection and party planning for most, but I always find myself grumbling about the need to buy a new calendar. I see no real value in thinking that one can "Turn the Page" after a night of binge drinking and a sloppy midnight kiss. In reality, most of us wake up miserably hungover with the nagging compulsion to think of how this coming year will be different. Those who wait all year for January 1st to roll around so they can finally accomplish their dreams will most likely end up in a cyclical rut: miserable hangover followed by nagging compulsion ad infinitum. 

everybody loves sports.

In an effort to gain a better understanding of the sports culture that pervades almost every aspect of the Chicago lifestyle, my roommate Nicole and I watched the movie "Friday Night Lights" this evening. A quintessential (dare i say classic?) football tale, the film reproduces a tumultuous season of fall ball in Odessa (middle of nowhere), Texas. People love this movie and I can't quite wrap my head around why. To me it was just sad. And not sad because [SPOILER ALERT]