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Here's another piece I wrote many, many, many years ago, and just dug up. I haven't read it in years, and will be reading as I type it. Hope the humor is still fresh.
From Riches to Shmattas
By: A. Shmatta
Wipe, wipe, wipe. Shine, shine, shine. Polish, polish, polish.
Oh, I'm so tired. Please let me rest awhile. Mrs. Baumgarten continues to rub me over her silver wine cups. Oooo, I'm so black and streaked. How will I ever get white again?
Mrs. Baumgarten tosses me onto the counter the moment the phone rings. She rushes to answer it. "Hullo? Ida Kaplan, how are you? How's Morris? How're the grandchildren?" She rattles on and on, finally giving me a chance to rest. She didn't place me in a very comfortable position however, so I'm lying her all scrunched up.
These days, my home is in the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink (where I can at least stay warm while hanging over the hot water pipes), and I only get washed about once a month. But you should know that not long ago, I was something. I was important! I was a white, cotton, fleece-lined sweatshirt and belonged to Selma, the youngest Baumgarten daughter. And not just any old white, cotton, fleece-lined sweatshirt either; I was a Camp Beverly Hills sweatshirt.
Was I ever thankful when three years ago, someone came into the boutique, ruffled through the rainbow-colored sweatshirts, and salvaged me from the bottom of the pile. Mmm, I don't look so bad, just a bit rumpled, I thought to myself as the teenager unfolded me and held me up against her chest as she looked in the mirror. The body contact felt good -- I'd lacked contact for a few weeks since that lady had finished sewing me in the factory. Was I thrilled when the girl told the saleslady, "Okay, charge this white one to my dad. Here's his credit card."
I was very popular in those days and got lots of compliments from Selma's crowd. "Wow, what a great sweatshirt. Selma, do you think I could borrow your 'sweat' sometime?"
Selma and I became bosom buddies. She took me nearly everywhere she went and I got to see a lot of sights -- the high school gym, the school library, some good movies, and even the back seat of an old, beat-up '69 Chevy. Spain last summer was great and California during spring break was even wilder. Some unpleasant places I came into contact with and dreaded were cluttered gym lockers and the dirty clothes hamper.
I also lived for a while with Brian Green, one of Selma's many boyfriends. He gave her a gold bracelet, and she in turn gave him her favorite sweatshirt -- that's me! Life with Brian wasn't so splendid. I often had to tag along to football games and be left alone on the bleachers. Once in a while, Muffy, Brian's terrier, started up with me. We'd get into some pretty heavy arm wrestling. She thought it was a ball. I didn't!
Lucky for me, the relationship lasted only a couple of months. Brian and Selma broke up and returned each other's love tokens. So, back I was with Selma, a little out of shape and showing a few more wrinkles, but still in style nonetheless.
At first, Selma was excited to have me back, but it soon became evident that there was competition in my life.
On a shopping outing one day, Selma, with me hugging her shoulders, stepped into the same boutique where we had first become acquainted (ie. where she had picked me up). She wasn't looking for anything in particular, but that didn't matter. No sooner were we in the store, than Selma spotted a neon banana-yellow sweatshirt. "Oh, how chic!" she exclaimed. "I just have to buy this Fiorucci. It'll add so much color to my wardrobe."
I hung there, peeking over Selma's shoulder and silently pleading, No, no. You don't want a Fiorucci. Fiorucci isn't in style. Camp Beverly Hills garb is!
Selma voiced her opinion to the saleslady as she pulled out her father's infamous credit card. "I'm going to be the first one in my crowd with a 'Fio' sweatshirt. If the girls see that I have one, they'll all want one too."
The next thing I knew, I was being stuffed into the Boutique La Moda bag, while the Fiorucci sweatshirt took its place around Selma's shoulders. Was I angry and jealous! Selma walked home, swinging the bag freely in her hand, so I was feeling pretty claustrophobic and nauseated within my plastic prison by the time we got home.
Selma laid me and my archrival side by side on her bed and went to call her friends to tell them of her latest purchase. The Fiorucci tried to make conversation with me, but I was in no mood to try to break through the language and cultural barrier.
Selma would still take me with her when she'd go out, but less frequently and to fewer places. I'd sit and wait anxiously in Selma's top dresser drawer for her to choose me, but more often she chose to take "the little bambina who ain't from Pasadena." There was no doubt that Camp Beverly Hills was out and Fiorucci was in!
One day, Selma came into the room, opened the drawer,took me lovingly into her arms and said aloud, "Well, the jig is up. You've just about had it with me. I think I'll donate you to the Hadassah rummage sale. Someone might still be able to make use out of you."
What was I hearing?! Selma, you can't mean it! After all those good times we've had together, you're getting rid of me?
There was no time to plead my case aloud 'cause Selma took me into the kitchen, tossed me over to Mrs. Baumgarten and said, "Here, Ma. You can take this along with your other old clothes to the rummage sale next week," and walked out.
Mrs. Baumgarten turned me over in her hands, examining me closely and said aloud, "Bazaar, shmazaar. They'll have enough stuff to sell. I'm keeping this. It'll be good to use as a shmatta for polishing silver."
Oh, no! How can she do this to me? How can Selma do this to me...?
So...that's the story of my life -- "A sweatshirt today, a shmatta tomorrow."
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Confessions of a Barbie Doll
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I dug up this piece I'd written over 20 years ago. At the time I'd hoped to publish it, and after some snail mail back-and-forth correspondence with Mattel to use the Barbie and Mattel trademarks, permission was denied. Guess you can see why...
BTW, I shared the piece with a newfound friend and she said, "Your Barbie sounds just like Paris Hilton!!!"
CONFESSIONS OF A BARBIE DOLL
Hi, I'm Barbie. Actually, that's not my full name, but that's what my friends call me. Ken, Skipper, Madge, Farrah, Brooke, and Mr. T. all know me as Barbie. And if they really want to get my attention, they call, "Hey, Barbie Doll!" That's sure to make my head turn.
I lead what I think is a pretty exciting life for a young person, and I have lots of friends. Ken has been my steady boyfriend for quite a number of years now. We've talked about marriage, but have decided that we're not yet ready or mature enough for it. (Besides, Mattel has not yet designed a wedding chapel.)
Before I met Ken, I had a thing going with a soldier -- a G.I. His name was Joe; I never did find out what his last name was. But it didn't really matter -- I like men in uniform and I was very attracted to his army fatigues. We met on a blind date that Madge had arranged and we began dating after that.
The relationship didn't last too long because Joe always had to leave town for overseas missions and we began to drift apart. I had suggested that he try to get a job at NASA, but too many people had the same idea, and no more applications for astronauts were being accepted. Joe decided that he was meant to be a G.I. rather than just a suburban type and we broke up. I also had to give him back his dog tags, which he had let me wear as long as we were dating.
And then there was Ken. He was everything I'd ever wanted in a man: he was tall, handsome, wealthy, athletic and cultured. He reminds me, even to this day, of Oliver Barrett, the character that Ryan O'Neal played in the movie Love Story.
Like I mentioned before, I lead a pretty exciting life. I LOVE shopping for clothes and have a wardrobe like you wouldn't believe. My problem is that I can't bear to throw anything out. I got closets-full of clothes that I might've worn for one season and never again. But now, that might change because some of the styles are back in. I'm so glad that I can wear my patent leather shoes and purses again and not stand out in a crowd. The same goes for my plaid skirts, my leather bomber jackets, my fun furs and my ear muffs.
As for my hairstyle, well, that's changed with the times as well I've had it long, short, crimped, curly, braids a la Bo Derek and a fluffy hairdo like my friend Farrah. Maybe I should have taken a hint from my friend Madge, who believes that her pageboy style will never be out of fashion.
Most people think I'm pretty. I guess I am. Sometimes I'm even considered glamorous. People are pretty envious of my peaches-and-cream complexion, my natural blonde hair and my proportioned figure. But I've worked hard to look that way and my lifestyle is regimented by beauty tips and nutrition tips that I read about in Vogue, Glamour and Mademoiselle magazines each month. Even while growing up, I had subscriptions to Young Miss, Co-Ed, Teen, and later, Seventeen magazine.
Mom's friends told me to try my hand at modelling and I took a few course at Barbizon's modelling school in the city. My picture got into some catalogues for which I modelled clothing and accessories, and I was popular for a few years. I started losing contracts and realized that a look like mine is needed in the business for only a short while. It's okay -- I learned to handle it and took a few sessions with a psychotherapist who taught me how to deal with the rejection. There were a couple of chances for a comeback last year, but I declined the offers.
These days, my purpose in life is to fill the pages of my appointment book. I sty physically, socially, and mentally active. Every afternoon, I go to aerobics classes and then work out on the Nautilus equipment with my friends Mr. T. and The Incredible Hulk. Other than aerobics and Nautilus, I swim, surf, rollerskate, skateboard, cycle and dance. When I'm not physically or socially active, I like to read. Believe it or not, I like Harlequin stories, Kahlil Gibran's works, the New York Times, do-it-yourself, and also self-improvement books. I had once considered taking up journalism, but at the end, opted against it. I figured that a journalist's job is part of a dog-eat-dog world, and I hate violence.
I haven't worked in the last few years, anyways, not since I was modelling. When I was a teen, I worked after school in a Burger King and made pocket money. But ten years ago, Grand-Daddy passed on and left his billion-dollar fortune to our family. Dad divided the money equally among us and then helped me make some wise investments with my portion. I've lived off the interest ever since from my purchases, and my real estate properties. I also bought a motor home, a dune buggy, a show-dog Afghan, and became a partner in an ice-cream shop. Three years ago, I bought a home and decorated it myself. It has even been featured in Metropolitan Home and Architectural Digest magazines. I've had some tempting offers from people who want to buy it, but I've got no intention to sell it at the moment.
Not long ago, I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday. It was a blast. Daddy rented out a beach house with its own private beach and flew me and twenty of my closest friends there for the weekend. A mini-bus picked us up at the airport and drove us along the coast to Malibu, where we partied all weekend long. The weather was perfect, the view was fantastic and the company was just great...especially Ken. I couldn't have asked for anything more.
My gifts were pretty special, too. Ken gave me a beautiful sterling silver hairbrush, comb and mirrow set, and to top that off, he also gave me a diamond bracelet which read: BARBIE--25. He says that next year he'll give me a diamond ring for my birthday. Mom and Dad bought me a large share in that famous toy company Mattel, and an Italian sports car.
Now I think I'm all set for at least another twenty-five years, don't you?
I dug up this piece I'd written over 20 years ago. At the time I'd hoped to publish it, and after some snail mail back-and-forth correspondence with Mattel to use the Barbie and Mattel trademarks, permission was denied. Guess you can see why...
BTW, I shared the piece with a newfound friend and she said, "Your Barbie sounds just like Paris Hilton!!!"
CONFESSIONS OF A BARBIE DOLL
Hi, I'm Barbie. Actually, that's not my full name, but that's what my friends call me. Ken, Skipper, Madge, Farrah, Brooke, and Mr. T. all know me as Barbie. And if they really want to get my attention, they call, "Hey, Barbie Doll!" That's sure to make my head turn.
I lead what I think is a pretty exciting life for a young person, and I have lots of friends. Ken has been my steady boyfriend for quite a number of years now. We've talked about marriage, but have decided that we're not yet ready or mature enough for it. (Besides, Mattel has not yet designed a wedding chapel.)
Before I met Ken, I had a thing going with a soldier -- a G.I. His name was Joe; I never did find out what his last name was. But it didn't really matter -- I like men in uniform and I was very attracted to his army fatigues. We met on a blind date that Madge had arranged and we began dating after that.
The relationship didn't last too long because Joe always had to leave town for overseas missions and we began to drift apart. I had suggested that he try to get a job at NASA, but too many people had the same idea, and no more applications for astronauts were being accepted. Joe decided that he was meant to be a G.I. rather than just a suburban type and we broke up. I also had to give him back his dog tags, which he had let me wear as long as we were dating.
And then there was Ken. He was everything I'd ever wanted in a man: he was tall, handsome, wealthy, athletic and cultured. He reminds me, even to this day, of Oliver Barrett, the character that Ryan O'Neal played in the movie Love Story.
Like I mentioned before, I lead a pretty exciting life. I LOVE shopping for clothes and have a wardrobe like you wouldn't believe. My problem is that I can't bear to throw anything out. I got closets-full of clothes that I might've worn for one season and never again. But now, that might change because some of the styles are back in. I'm so glad that I can wear my patent leather shoes and purses again and not stand out in a crowd. The same goes for my plaid skirts, my leather bomber jackets, my fun furs and my ear muffs.
As for my hairstyle, well, that's changed with the times as well I've had it long, short, crimped, curly, braids a la Bo Derek and a fluffy hairdo like my friend Farrah. Maybe I should have taken a hint from my friend Madge, who believes that her pageboy style will never be out of fashion.
Most people think I'm pretty. I guess I am. Sometimes I'm even considered glamorous. People are pretty envious of my peaches-and-cream complexion, my natural blonde hair and my proportioned figure. But I've worked hard to look that way and my lifestyle is regimented by beauty tips and nutrition tips that I read about in Vogue, Glamour and Mademoiselle magazines each month. Even while growing up, I had subscriptions to Young Miss, Co-Ed, Teen, and later, Seventeen magazine.
Mom's friends told me to try my hand at modelling and I took a few course at Barbizon's modelling school in the city. My picture got into some catalogues for which I modelled clothing and accessories, and I was popular for a few years. I started losing contracts and realized that a look like mine is needed in the business for only a short while. It's okay -- I learned to handle it and took a few sessions with a psychotherapist who taught me how to deal with the rejection. There were a couple of chances for a comeback last year, but I declined the offers.
These days, my purpose in life is to fill the pages of my appointment book. I sty physically, socially, and mentally active. Every afternoon, I go to aerobics classes and then work out on the Nautilus equipment with my friends Mr. T. and The Incredible Hulk. Other than aerobics and Nautilus, I swim, surf, rollerskate, skateboard, cycle and dance. When I'm not physically or socially active, I like to read. Believe it or not, I like Harlequin stories, Kahlil Gibran's works, the New York Times, do-it-yourself, and also self-improvement books. I had once considered taking up journalism, but at the end, opted against it. I figured that a journalist's job is part of a dog-eat-dog world, and I hate violence.
I haven't worked in the last few years, anyways, not since I was modelling. When I was a teen, I worked after school in a Burger King and made pocket money. But ten years ago, Grand-Daddy passed on and left his billion-dollar fortune to our family. Dad divided the money equally among us and then helped me make some wise investments with my portion. I've lived off the interest ever since from my purchases, and my real estate properties. I also bought a motor home, a dune buggy, a show-dog Afghan, and became a partner in an ice-cream shop. Three years ago, I bought a home and decorated it myself. It has even been featured in Metropolitan Home and Architectural Digest magazines. I've had some tempting offers from people who want to buy it, but I've got no intention to sell it at the moment.
Not long ago, I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday. It was a blast. Daddy rented out a beach house with its own private beach and flew me and twenty of my closest friends there for the weekend. A mini-bus picked us up at the airport and drove us along the coast to Malibu, where we partied all weekend long. The weather was perfect, the view was fantastic and the company was just great...especially Ken. I couldn't have asked for anything more.
My gifts were pretty special, too. Ken gave me a beautiful sterling silver hairbrush, comb and mirrow set, and to top that off, he also gave me a diamond bracelet which read: BARBIE--25. He says that next year he'll give me a diamond ring for my birthday. Mom and Dad bought me a large share in that famous toy company Mattel, and an Italian sports car.
Now I think I'm all set for at least another twenty-five years, don't you?
You Can't Retract Your Words Even If You Try To Retrace Your Steps
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I was just "blog surfing" and came across such a stark rant that a child had for a parent. It was ugly; it was detailed; it was ANGER SPEAKING OUT.
Call me naive, but even if a person has been truly hurt, physically and emotionally, by a parent, is a blog the right path to take for venting? EVERYTHING you ever say in blogland "can and will be held against you." Even if you keep your identity secret, there is always something in a post that will give it away. Google archives hold you and your words captive for a very long time!
If it isn't a personal counselor/analyst you choose to speak to, then write a letter detailing your thoughts, but certainly do not post them. Those words are coarse, and ugly, and I really don't know how cathartic they are for you. I do know that I, as an innocent bystander, am more than embarrassed to read them...especially from a fellow Jew.
You rant in one post, and in the next post, you want to retract your words and announce your apology for venting so publicly, so loudly.
Your pain is palpable, but you can never retract those uttered words... Google's gotten hold of them and just won't let them go without a struggle.
Walk before you run. Look before you leap. Think before you speak.
Sometimes you just have to use those same lessons that a nasty parent might have taught you.
I was just "blog surfing" and came across such a stark rant that a child had for a parent. It was ugly; it was detailed; it was ANGER SPEAKING OUT.
Call me naive, but even if a person has been truly hurt, physically and emotionally, by a parent, is a blog the right path to take for venting? EVERYTHING you ever say in blogland "can and will be held against you." Even if you keep your identity secret, there is always something in a post that will give it away. Google archives hold you and your words captive for a very long time!
If it isn't a personal counselor/analyst you choose to speak to, then write a letter detailing your thoughts, but certainly do not post them. Those words are coarse, and ugly, and I really don't know how cathartic they are for you. I do know that I, as an innocent bystander, am more than embarrassed to read them...especially from a fellow Jew.
You rant in one post, and in the next post, you want to retract your words and announce your apology for venting so publicly, so loudly.
Your pain is palpable, but you can never retract those uttered words... Google's gotten hold of them and just won't let them go without a struggle.
Walk before you run. Look before you leap. Think before you speak.
Sometimes you just have to use those same lessons that a nasty parent might have taught you.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
R.S.V.P. ...not!
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Thought I was inviting you to some simcha, some gathering, some blogger festivities, huh? Sorry, nuh-uh... But I am inviting you to your opinions.
I'm in my 40's; I'm not in my late teens or twenties or thirties.
My parents are in their seventies and eighties, not in their fifties and sixties.
So, why, then, pray tell, do we continue to get wedding invitations that invite us to Kabbalat Panim, Chupah...and Simchat Chatan v'Kallah some five hours later?
Oh, yes, it's lovely to have a simcha, and want to share it with people, and of course, you can't invite everyone to partake in the festivities, but please...enough already.
I am a borderline acquaintance to you; you do not need to invite me; you might need the monetary gift for your children and this invitation/appeal is the cost of a postage stamp, or even better, a hand-delivered invitation. But the truth of the matter is that when you're married, with children who need babysitters, you're not gonna run home from work, get dressed for a chupah, rush to the shul or social hall, stay for a chupah and plan to go back in a few hours...to hand over the check.
My parents have friends from yesteryear who still have them in their address book. These friends' grandchildren get married, and the friends say, "Send an invitation to Mr. & Mrs. ____ for the chupah and simchat chatan v'kallah at 10:00." Yeah, like my parents really appreciate this nicety.
Over Shabbat lunch with friends we've had opportunity to discuss this matter and we're all voting the same: if you cannot afford to invite us forty- and fifty-somethings, don't, (can't talk for the twenty and thirty-somethings) but don't send a shout-out invite for the in-and-out celebrating. It just ain't worth it to us...!
Yes, we wish you a hearty mazel tov, and yes, we might send a gift when we hear that you're making a simcha, whether we're invited or not, but please...take us off the guest list...UNLESS IT'S FOR DINNER.
(and should we choose to attend your simcha, with the revolving door entry/exit, and give you a gift, find it in your heart -- and address book -- to send us a thank-you note...a nicety, just like the invitation was!)
Thought I was inviting you to some simcha, some gathering, some blogger festivities, huh? Sorry, nuh-uh... But I am inviting you to your opinions.
I'm in my 40's; I'm not in my late teens or twenties or thirties.
My parents are in their seventies and eighties, not in their fifties and sixties.
So, why, then, pray tell, do we continue to get wedding invitations that invite us to Kabbalat Panim, Chupah...and Simchat Chatan v'Kallah some five hours later?
Oh, yes, it's lovely to have a simcha, and want to share it with people, and of course, you can't invite everyone to partake in the festivities, but please...enough already.
I am a borderline acquaintance to you; you do not need to invite me; you might need the monetary gift for your children and this invitation/appeal is the cost of a postage stamp, or even better, a hand-delivered invitation. But the truth of the matter is that when you're married, with children who need babysitters, you're not gonna run home from work, get dressed for a chupah, rush to the shul or social hall, stay for a chupah and plan to go back in a few hours...to hand over the check.
My parents have friends from yesteryear who still have them in their address book. These friends' grandchildren get married, and the friends say, "Send an invitation to Mr. & Mrs. ____ for the chupah and simchat chatan v'kallah at 10:00." Yeah, like my parents really appreciate this nicety.
Over Shabbat lunch with friends we've had opportunity to discuss this matter and we're all voting the same: if you cannot afford to invite us forty- and fifty-somethings, don't, (can't talk for the twenty and thirty-somethings) but don't send a shout-out invite for the in-and-out celebrating. It just ain't worth it to us...!
Yes, we wish you a hearty mazel tov, and yes, we might send a gift when we hear that you're making a simcha, whether we're invited or not, but please...take us off the guest list...UNLESS IT'S FOR DINNER.
(and should we choose to attend your simcha, with the revolving door entry/exit, and give you a gift, find it in your heart -- and address book -- to send us a thank-you note...a nicety, just like the invitation was!)
"I'd Like To..."
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I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing
I'd like to build the world a home
And furnish it with love
Grow apple trees and honey bees (take note, David Bogner)
and snow-white turtle doves
I'd like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
I'd like to hold it in my arms
and keep it company
I'd like to see the world for once
All standing hand in hand
And hear them echo through the hills "Ah, peace throughout the land"
(That's the song I hear)
I'd like to teach the world to sing (that the world sings today)
In perfect harmony(Lead singer and background singers singing simultaneously)
I'd like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
I'd like to build the world a home
And furnish it with love
Grow apple trees and honey bees
and snow-white turtle doves
I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing
I'd like to build the world a home
And furnish it with love
Grow apple trees and honey bees (take note, David Bogner)
and snow-white turtle doves
I'd like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
I'd like to hold it in my arms
and keep it company
I'd like to see the world for once
All standing hand in hand
And hear them echo through the hills "Ah, peace throughout the land"
(That's the song I hear)
I'd like to teach the world to sing (that the world sings today)
In perfect harmony(Lead singer and background singers singing simultaneously)
I'd like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
I'd like to build the world a home
And furnish it with love
Grow apple trees and honey bees
and snow-white turtle doves
Monday, August 15, 2005
Hula Hooping Her Way To Eight
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Tomorrow, August 16, my middle child, my daughter, turns eight. She is my Shabbos Nachamu baby who "disrupted" what was supposed to be a restful, peaceful Shabbos eight years ago. But the disruption was a welcome one, and when she was born about 20 minutes before Shabbos was out, I piped up, "I fished my wish."
Since I was a child, and the only girl in a family with two older brothers, I'd always hoped for a daughter. I'd also especially wanted a little girl so that I could give her the name of a cherished younger sister of my father who was a victim of the Holocaust.
My husband and I were blessed with this daughter of mine.
From a young age, she was beautiful but feisty. Her luring kitten-blue eyes could entice you or could shoot sparks of fire your way. At the tender age of about 2 1/2, she stood on playground equipment and announced to grade 1 schoolgirls, "You no go on slide; A--- go on slide." She stood her ground, and I could just picture her in a leather jacket, collar up, a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth, the leader of a girl gang from the fifties.
But she is indeed anything but. She is a gentle, loving and generous friend, daughter and sister, always looking out for other people -- she is attracted to children of all ages, and people of all ages are attracted to her. Her feistiness shines through every now and again with family members, and we are helping to direct her to recognize that there is a time and place for feistiness.
I love to watch her when she's not looking my way, and I sit in awe of this wondrous (poo, poo, poo) beauty; she has this "je ne sais quoi" about her -- this childlike elfin quality with the coyness of a grown woman; only, she doesn't use this coyness wittingly; it is just a part of who she is.
She does not like attention, nor praise, nor compliments -- a true Aishet Chayil in training. She does not want to draw attention to herself -- unless she's telling a story. Then it's details galore that rush out of her mouth, such as the retelling of her nighttime dreams, details and all, almost sounding as if they're miniseries that she's making up as she goes along.
This evening she was showing me how to Hoola Hoop. This little child was encouraging me, telling me, "You can do it...I'll show you an easy way." And she beamed when I spun that Hoola Hoop around my waist....ONCE. "Yay, you did it!" This from a kid who could shimmy that hoop from her shoulders to her ankles for endless minutes. This child beamed for and praised her mother just as a mother would praise her child.
Together we laughed in delight as we enjoyed our silly venture in a fad of days gone by...one I'd never mastered, but that she certainly has.
I wish this sweet daughter of mine continued good health, happiness and a peaceful world to grow up in. May she continue on the course of being an Aishet Chayil, may she maintain her feistiness, her charm, her beauty and her natural curiosity about the world around her...because the world around her is certainly curious about her.
May she continue to represent her first and middle names well, because they are very much a part of who and what she is to us and those around her.
Happy Birthday, "Motek"!
Tomorrow, August 16, my middle child, my daughter, turns eight. She is my Shabbos Nachamu baby who "disrupted" what was supposed to be a restful, peaceful Shabbos eight years ago. But the disruption was a welcome one, and when she was born about 20 minutes before Shabbos was out, I piped up, "I fished my wish."
Since I was a child, and the only girl in a family with two older brothers, I'd always hoped for a daughter. I'd also especially wanted a little girl so that I could give her the name of a cherished younger sister of my father who was a victim of the Holocaust.
My husband and I were blessed with this daughter of mine.
From a young age, she was beautiful but feisty. Her luring kitten-blue eyes could entice you or could shoot sparks of fire your way. At the tender age of about 2 1/2, she stood on playground equipment and announced to grade 1 schoolgirls, "You no go on slide; A--- go on slide." She stood her ground, and I could just picture her in a leather jacket, collar up, a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth, the leader of a girl gang from the fifties.
But she is indeed anything but. She is a gentle, loving and generous friend, daughter and sister, always looking out for other people -- she is attracted to children of all ages, and people of all ages are attracted to her. Her feistiness shines through every now and again with family members, and we are helping to direct her to recognize that there is a time and place for feistiness.
I love to watch her when she's not looking my way, and I sit in awe of this wondrous (poo, poo, poo) beauty; she has this "je ne sais quoi" about her -- this childlike elfin quality with the coyness of a grown woman; only, she doesn't use this coyness wittingly; it is just a part of who she is.
She does not like attention, nor praise, nor compliments -- a true Aishet Chayil in training. She does not want to draw attention to herself -- unless she's telling a story. Then it's details galore that rush out of her mouth, such as the retelling of her nighttime dreams, details and all, almost sounding as if they're miniseries that she's making up as she goes along.
This evening she was showing me how to Hoola Hoop. This little child was encouraging me, telling me, "You can do it...I'll show you an easy way." And she beamed when I spun that Hoola Hoop around my waist....ONCE. "Yay, you did it!" This from a kid who could shimmy that hoop from her shoulders to her ankles for endless minutes. This child beamed for and praised her mother just as a mother would praise her child.
Together we laughed in delight as we enjoyed our silly venture in a fad of days gone by...one I'd never mastered, but that she certainly has.
I wish this sweet daughter of mine continued good health, happiness and a peaceful world to grow up in. May she continue on the course of being an Aishet Chayil, may she maintain her feistiness, her charm, her beauty and her natural curiosity about the world around her...because the world around her is certainly curious about her.
May she continue to represent her first and middle names well, because they are very much a part of who and what she is to us and those around her.
Happy Birthday, "Motek"!
A Lovely Compliment
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Received an e-mail today; embedded in it was a lovely compliment.
By the way, I come to your blog all the time, whenever I need a dose of nice. It is a refreshing upbeat look at the world through jewish-colored glasses.
What a great bonus for me and my writing!
Received an e-mail today; embedded in it was a lovely compliment.
By the way, I come to your blog all the time, whenever I need a dose of nice. It is a refreshing upbeat look at the world through jewish-colored glasses.
What a great bonus for me and my writing!
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Music On My Mind
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As I've noted before, I'm forever singing, have always known lyrics to countless songs, I can often "name that tune in 3 notes", etc. Music has always and will always be part of who and what I am.
This night I've been thinking of some of the wonderful musicians & concerts I've seen over the years. These include:
*Tito Puente -- the venue was a restaurant, so it wasn't so large a place that I couldn't see him well. He was well into his senior years when I saw him, and his daughter performed as well. It was more than difficult to sit still in my seat with that wonderful rhythm of the bongos and the horns pounding out the music of Brazil and Cuba and other hot-blooded countries.
* George Benson -- I was about 17 when I went to see George with my two brothers and a friend of my oldest brother. The ride down to the concert venue was exciting in itself; my brother's friend owned a Porsche Targa with a sunroof. The roof was off and we were either standing with our head out of the roof, or the George Benson music was already blaring on the car stereo. The concert itself was memorable as Mr. Benson made that guitar playing look so easy and he became one with his guitar.
* Billy Joel -- I saw this concert when I was university and had amazing close-up seats, thanks to a friend. All around me, people were smoking up, pretty much first time I was plunked right into such a setting. I'd never smoked up, nor have I ever, but (now laugh all you want!) I came out of that concert, stinking like a joint, and I remember sniffing my sleeve, wondering if I could get high off of it!
* Michael Feinstein -- This great cabaret singer/pianist kept me smiling with his music that night. The next day, noon, I was lucky enough to have had a scheduled one-on-one interview with him for 45 minutes...that kept me smiling that night, and the next night, and the next night....
* Janis Ian -- I saw her at an outdoor, lakeside venue when I was in my late teens. "At Seventeen" had spoken to me when it was released; all of Janis's music spoke to me that night at the concert.
* Itzhak Perlman -- I take every opportunity I can to see this great master violinist in concert. I've seen him both conduct the Toronto Symphony and be its star performer on the same billing, a wonderful feat for anyone.
* BB King -- Another master guitarist whose guitar strings "sing the blues". The sweat pours off BB's forehead as he nimbly plucks away and makes his guitar sing.
There have been many other musical performers and concerts I've seen over the years, and perhaps I'll tackle some more at a later date, on another blog post.
As I've noted before, I'm forever singing, have always known lyrics to countless songs, I can often "name that tune in 3 notes", etc. Music has always and will always be part of who and what I am.
This night I've been thinking of some of the wonderful musicians & concerts I've seen over the years. These include:
*Tito Puente -- the venue was a restaurant, so it wasn't so large a place that I couldn't see him well. He was well into his senior years when I saw him, and his daughter performed as well. It was more than difficult to sit still in my seat with that wonderful rhythm of the bongos and the horns pounding out the music of Brazil and Cuba and other hot-blooded countries.
* George Benson -- I was about 17 when I went to see George with my two brothers and a friend of my oldest brother. The ride down to the concert venue was exciting in itself; my brother's friend owned a Porsche Targa with a sunroof. The roof was off and we were either standing with our head out of the roof, or the George Benson music was already blaring on the car stereo. The concert itself was memorable as Mr. Benson made that guitar playing look so easy and he became one with his guitar.
* Billy Joel -- I saw this concert when I was university and had amazing close-up seats, thanks to a friend. All around me, people were smoking up, pretty much first time I was plunked right into such a setting. I'd never smoked up, nor have I ever, but (now laugh all you want!) I came out of that concert, stinking like a joint, and I remember sniffing my sleeve, wondering if I could get high off of it!
* Michael Feinstein -- This great cabaret singer/pianist kept me smiling with his music that night. The next day, noon, I was lucky enough to have had a scheduled one-on-one interview with him for 45 minutes...that kept me smiling that night, and the next night, and the next night....
* Janis Ian -- I saw her at an outdoor, lakeside venue when I was in my late teens. "At Seventeen" had spoken to me when it was released; all of Janis's music spoke to me that night at the concert.
* Itzhak Perlman -- I take every opportunity I can to see this great master violinist in concert. I've seen him both conduct the Toronto Symphony and be its star performer on the same billing, a wonderful feat for anyone.
* BB King -- Another master guitarist whose guitar strings "sing the blues". The sweat pours off BB's forehead as he nimbly plucks away and makes his guitar sing.
There have been many other musical performers and concerts I've seen over the years, and perhaps I'll tackle some more at a later date, on another blog post.
I Learned a New Word Today
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First there was Orthodox. Then there was Conservative. Then there was Conservadox.
Today I learned a new word; I like this word; it rolls off the tongue very easily.
Everyone, practice saying it with me...on the count of three. One, two, three...
C-O-N-F-U-S-A-D-O-X
Say it again: CONFUSADOX.
Meaning: the nebulous state between Conservadox and Modern Orthodox.
First there was Orthodox. Then there was Conservative. Then there was Conservadox.
Today I learned a new word; I like this word; it rolls off the tongue very easily.
Everyone, practice saying it with me...on the count of three. One, two, three...
C-O-N-F-U-S-A-D-O-X
Say it again: CONFUSADOX.
Meaning: the nebulous state between Conservadox and Modern Orthodox.
Vive La Air France!
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Not that I travel much, but once upon a time I signed up to get a weekly mailing from Air Canada, noting their seat sales and their weekend seat sales...just in case I wanted to travel somewhere, just in case I could manage it.
This week I got my regular mailing from Air Canada.
This week I also got a mailing from Air France.
Hey, they're looking for customers; they're offering seat sales; they're in need of polishing up their recently tarnished reputation, due to the major crash of one of their fleet that took place a couple of weeks ago at Toronto's airport.
Book your flights for this Fall now, and fly to France
for as low as $ 618
Our return fares departing from Montreal and Toronto:
Book before August 18 and take advantage of our promotional fares:Paris, Nice, Toulouse, Bordeaux, Marseille, ... All France is offered at very low prices:
Departure dates :
Sep. 12 - Oct. 9, 2005
Oct. 10 - Dec. 8, 2005
Return fares to France:
$ 788
$ 618
Sounds magnifique, sounds inviting, sounds decadent...to just pick up the phone and reserve a flight to la belle pays France -- but this beautiful country, in spite of its fine wines, gourmet meals and lovely sights has a pretty major drawback these days. It's called l'antisemitism/antisemitism.
So, do I really want to go on an airline that just got worldwide coverage to a country that slowly is getting day by day worldwide coverage. Miracles happened on a Toronto runway, in spite of great, snaking flames. But in France, there have been great snaking flames in Jewish areas...and no miracles.
Not that I travel much, but once upon a time I signed up to get a weekly mailing from Air Canada, noting their seat sales and their weekend seat sales...just in case I wanted to travel somewhere, just in case I could manage it.
This week I got my regular mailing from Air Canada.
This week I also got a mailing from Air France.
Hey, they're looking for customers; they're offering seat sales; they're in need of polishing up their recently tarnished reputation, due to the major crash of one of their fleet that took place a couple of weeks ago at Toronto's airport.
Book your flights for this Fall now, and fly to France
for as low as $ 618
Our return fares departing from Montreal and Toronto:
Book before August 18 and take advantage of our promotional fares:Paris, Nice, Toulouse, Bordeaux, Marseille, ... All France is offered at very low prices:
Departure dates :
Sep. 12 - Oct. 9, 2005
Oct. 10 - Dec. 8, 2005
Return fares to France:
$ 788
$ 618
Sounds magnifique, sounds inviting, sounds decadent...to just pick up the phone and reserve a flight to la belle pays France -- but this beautiful country, in spite of its fine wines, gourmet meals and lovely sights has a pretty major drawback these days. It's called l'antisemitism/antisemitism.
So, do I really want to go on an airline that just got worldwide coverage to a country that slowly is getting day by day worldwide coverage. Miracles happened on a Toronto runway, in spite of great, snaking flames. But in France, there have been great snaking flames in Jewish areas...and no miracles.
A Mournful Kind of Day
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I am not in shul. I am not listening in on any lectures.
It is gray, gloomy and rainy outside. My head is pounding, as both yesterday and today I've been nursing another one of those sinus headaches . I feel gross and wish that someone would take apart my head, nose and eyes, then put them back together -- pain free.
The newscasts tell us: plane crash in Greece, shootings here and there...and the Gush Katif forced evacuation looming on the immediate horizon.
It is indeed a mournful kind of day. May we all merit to see the coming of the Mashiach and the rebuilding of the temple "bimheyra b'yamaynu".
I am not in shul. I am not listening in on any lectures.
It is gray, gloomy and rainy outside. My head is pounding, as both yesterday and today I've been nursing another one of those sinus headaches . I feel gross and wish that someone would take apart my head, nose and eyes, then put them back together -- pain free.
The newscasts tell us: plane crash in Greece, shootings here and there...and the Gush Katif forced evacuation looming on the immediate horizon.
It is indeed a mournful kind of day. May we all merit to see the coming of the Mashiach and the rebuilding of the temple "bimheyra b'yamaynu".
Friday, August 12, 2005
Help! I've Been Outed!
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Okay, so I have a blog. I have a signing name of TorontoPearl. I write about my family life, my social life, my community life. I might give some revealing details, but I do not name names. I try not to represent Lashon Harah, although, if need be, I could excel at it! I am not the only Pearl in this city, nor the only Pearl who matches up with several of those revealing details.
But I've been outed.
A couple nights ago, I was talking to a fellow school mother and she mentioned the upcoming Yidstock music festival being held at Monticello Racetrack in the Catskill Mountains. I told her I knew about it, having read about the festival on a blog, and then I asked if she knows what a blog is (many people are like I was a year ago; I'd never heard or used the term) and then mentioned I have one.
"I know...I've been on it."
WHAT!!?? I silently screamed. HOW COULD YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?
She went on, as if she'd read my thoughts: "I can't remember how I know about it, but I know about it..."
I felt as if my fig leaf had been ripped away, my protective cover stripped away.
How could that be? you wonder. A blog might be a personal online journal, but it is ONLINE, and thus public.
I do have friends I've mentioned to that I keep a blog, but aside from one who found it on her own many months ago through a link, nobody has asked for the URL and that's been more than fine for me.
How do I explain it to them, or to myself even, that it seems okay to let a bunch of strangers worldwide read my words and think, "Hey, she's just some gal overseas/in the Great White North, who has some interesting things to say." They are exactly that: a bunch of strangers. I've met some of the strangers already or have corresponded offline with several of them, and all is fine with that and even that they associate the offline Pearl with the online Pearl. But somehow I can't get around the fact that some people who might know me are reading these words, and now know me even more. It's as if I still want to keep this part of my life a secret, a private part...away from my regular circle of friends and acquaintances, away from school and shul people. If I wanted them to know so much about me, well I wouldn't keep it a secret, would I?
It's difficult to explain that near-fear and dismay that clutched at me when this person told me she'd read my blog. It wasn't her per se I didn't want reading it, it's "them."
You are you, and they are "them." Subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless.
The question now is: Should I toss my head and say, "To hell with THEM!" and keep on writing, or should I take my writing underground and say, "To hell with blogging!"
Okay, so I have a blog. I have a signing name of TorontoPearl. I write about my family life, my social life, my community life. I might give some revealing details, but I do not name names. I try not to represent Lashon Harah, although, if need be, I could excel at it! I am not the only Pearl in this city, nor the only Pearl who matches up with several of those revealing details.
But I've been outed.
A couple nights ago, I was talking to a fellow school mother and she mentioned the upcoming Yidstock music festival being held at Monticello Racetrack in the Catskill Mountains. I told her I knew about it, having read about the festival on a blog, and then I asked if she knows what a blog is (many people are like I was a year ago; I'd never heard or used the term) and then mentioned I have one.
"I know...I've been on it."
WHAT!!?? I silently screamed. HOW COULD YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?
She went on, as if she'd read my thoughts: "I can't remember how I know about it, but I know about it..."
I felt as if my fig leaf had been ripped away, my protective cover stripped away.
How could that be? you wonder. A blog might be a personal online journal, but it is ONLINE, and thus public.
I do have friends I've mentioned to that I keep a blog, but aside from one who found it on her own many months ago through a link, nobody has asked for the URL and that's been more than fine for me.
How do I explain it to them, or to myself even, that it seems okay to let a bunch of strangers worldwide read my words and think, "Hey, she's just some gal overseas/in the Great White North, who has some interesting things to say." They are exactly that: a bunch of strangers. I've met some of the strangers already or have corresponded offline with several of them, and all is fine with that and even that they associate the offline Pearl with the online Pearl. But somehow I can't get around the fact that some people who might know me are reading these words, and now know me even more. It's as if I still want to keep this part of my life a secret, a private part...away from my regular circle of friends and acquaintances, away from school and shul people. If I wanted them to know so much about me, well I wouldn't keep it a secret, would I?
It's difficult to explain that near-fear and dismay that clutched at me when this person told me she'd read my blog. It wasn't her per se I didn't want reading it, it's "them."
You are you, and they are "them." Subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless.
The question now is: Should I toss my head and say, "To hell with THEM!" and keep on writing, or should I take my writing underground and say, "To hell with blogging!"
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Ga-Ga-Ga-Goo..gle Me
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Here's a round-up of some recent searches that led you to me. Yeah, you're not alone in your "huh?" look.
1) Twilight Zone theme song
2) "merriam-webster" + dictionary + haredi
3) traveler's prayer
4) andy rooney's telemarketer
5) musical version of tefilat haderech
6) sneak into universal studios from citywalk, bathroom
7) "jewish men" "sex drive"
8) Hilary Duff caught skinny dipping
Here's a round-up of some recent searches that led you to me. Yeah, you're not alone in your "huh?" look.
1) Twilight Zone theme song
2) "merriam-webster" + dictionary + haredi
3) traveler's prayer
4) andy rooney's telemarketer
5) musical version of tefilat haderech
6) sneak into universal studios from citywalk, bathroom
7) "jewish men" "sex drive"
8) Hilary Duff caught skinny dipping
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Hints of Fall = Memories of Summer
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It's almost mid-August; my children's day camp finishes next Wednesday; school supplies have to be bought; uniform blouses, shirts and pants have to be clean; dentist and doctor appointments have to be made.
Yes, there are still shul soccer games to be played by both my sons; yes, there are still our shuls bringing Shabbos in early on Friday nights; there is still yardwork to be done; bike riding to be had; and basketball nets to reach for.
But hints of fall are already under way -- school supply lists and admit-to-class cards in the mail; back-to-school flyers in the newspapers; free-standing signs advertising High Holiday seating tickets; the sun sets earlier; the evening cools down; the car windows have to be wiped down in the morning because of the dew. Fall is just around the corner, and so I think about this past summer.
* My parents celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary; my father celebrated his 85th birthday; my son celebrated his 10th birthday; my daughter will, G-d willing, celebrate her 8th birthday
Celebrating is good. Celebrating is a bracha.
* I had the opportunity to meet some wonderful people who, until this summer, had mainly been a name or a pseudonym to me. I recognized that these people, aka bloggers, are as welcoming, warm and wise as their words on-screen and off-screen.
The pleasure was all mine.
* Our pug, Tyson Pugsley, died in June, on a Shabbos, the day before Father's Day. Nobody was home at the time. He left this world just as he lived in it: quietly.
We miss Tyson -- his comical face and body; his wiggling tushy; his hovering, waiting underfoot for someone to drop a crumb; his ability to make people stop and pet him because he was so "cutely ugly"; his snoring.
* Our first family holiday. A packed van full of kids, DVDs, clothing and kosher food and snacks -- and maps!
I took a solo holiday before the family holiday. I could have stood to use another solo holiday AFTER the family holiday.
* An observation I made on this family holiday: the U.S. is plentiful with travelers who own RV's -- not just simple Winnebago-type homes on wheels, but extended, magnificent-looking family chariots. These are personalized vehicles that stand out on the highway because of their size and their elegant designs. They are all rather rich-looking.
Many of these RV's tow vehicles behind them; just like the RV's, most of the vehicles are designer cars and SUVs. Often the exterior of these cars match the exterior of the RV towing it!
* I have watched as my children's sport skills improve -- basketball, soccer, baseball. Boys against the girl; girl and friend against the boys.
My sons' knowledge of baseball has also improved -- thanks to TV sports channels, Game Cube games, the radio and the newspaper. Oh, no, hockey season is just around the corner...
* My blog writing/reading/commenting has intensified over the summer. I thought that with the extended time away from the computer because of the out-of-town trips, my interest would diminish; unfortunately, it's accentuated -- and more hours are spent at my computer.
I do have a life outside of the blogging world, and a very lovely life it is, but this writing has brought me much pleasure, has helped keep the writing muse active and carrying over into other personal writing, has let me captivate an audience, and has been good for the soul.
"Summertime....and the living is easy...."
It's almost mid-August; my children's day camp finishes next Wednesday; school supplies have to be bought; uniform blouses, shirts and pants have to be clean; dentist and doctor appointments have to be made.
Yes, there are still shul soccer games to be played by both my sons; yes, there are still our shuls bringing Shabbos in early on Friday nights; there is still yardwork to be done; bike riding to be had; and basketball nets to reach for.
But hints of fall are already under way -- school supply lists and admit-to-class cards in the mail; back-to-school flyers in the newspapers; free-standing signs advertising High Holiday seating tickets; the sun sets earlier; the evening cools down; the car windows have to be wiped down in the morning because of the dew. Fall is just around the corner, and so I think about this past summer.
* My parents celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary; my father celebrated his 85th birthday; my son celebrated his 10th birthday; my daughter will, G-d willing, celebrate her 8th birthday
Celebrating is good. Celebrating is a bracha.
* I had the opportunity to meet some wonderful people who, until this summer, had mainly been a name or a pseudonym to me. I recognized that these people, aka bloggers, are as welcoming, warm and wise as their words on-screen and off-screen.
The pleasure was all mine.
* Our pug, Tyson Pugsley, died in June, on a Shabbos, the day before Father's Day. Nobody was home at the time. He left this world just as he lived in it: quietly.
We miss Tyson -- his comical face and body; his wiggling tushy; his hovering, waiting underfoot for someone to drop a crumb; his ability to make people stop and pet him because he was so "cutely ugly"; his snoring.
* Our first family holiday. A packed van full of kids, DVDs, clothing and kosher food and snacks -- and maps!
I took a solo holiday before the family holiday. I could have stood to use another solo holiday AFTER the family holiday.
* An observation I made on this family holiday: the U.S. is plentiful with travelers who own RV's -- not just simple Winnebago-type homes on wheels, but extended, magnificent-looking family chariots. These are personalized vehicles that stand out on the highway because of their size and their elegant designs. They are all rather rich-looking.
Many of these RV's tow vehicles behind them; just like the RV's, most of the vehicles are designer cars and SUVs. Often the exterior of these cars match the exterior of the RV towing it!
* I have watched as my children's sport skills improve -- basketball, soccer, baseball. Boys against the girl; girl and friend against the boys.
My sons' knowledge of baseball has also improved -- thanks to TV sports channels, Game Cube games, the radio and the newspaper. Oh, no, hockey season is just around the corner...
* My blog writing/reading/commenting has intensified over the summer. I thought that with the extended time away from the computer because of the out-of-town trips, my interest would diminish; unfortunately, it's accentuated -- and more hours are spent at my computer.
I do have a life outside of the blogging world, and a very lovely life it is, but this writing has brought me much pleasure, has helped keep the writing muse active and carrying over into other personal writing, has let me captivate an audience, and has been good for the soul.
"Summertime....and the living is easy...."
A Secret Admirer
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I received an e-mail today; the subject line said "A Secret Admirer" so I was hemming and hawing whether or not I should open the mail. I was afraid it might be a virus. But curious me did open it and was most happy that I did.
It was a lovely message from a New York woman who told me that she's been reading and enjoying my blog since day 1 -- over seven months ago. I have never seen a comment on my posts from this person, so she is indeed a secret admirer.
She introduced herself by name and asked if it was familiar to me. In my early months of reading blogs, I used to read her comments on another well-read and very popular blog. She and her husband even received a honorable post on that blog, and it stands out very clearly in my mind. I could even put a face to the name because there had been accompanying photos with the post.
She went on to compliment my writing and praise me as a person, and I was clearly moved. Not to discount any of your warm sentiments in online or offline comments... Yes, I appreciate and truly enjoy any and every comment/compliment I might get about my posts, but receiving a warm letter like this has true merit for me. It was as if I was a pretty new author with only a couple published books to my name, and she was a reader-fan who came out of the woodwork and took the time to write and say what kind of reader she was and what kind of writer I was.
It is clear that I did not forget who she was since I first learned about her. It is clearer that having read my words over these past few months, she has gotten a sense of who -- and what -- I am.
And to this woman, I once again write, "Thank you...for I am deeply moved by your words...and your experiences."
Signed: "Your Secret Admirer."
I received an e-mail today; the subject line said "A Secret Admirer" so I was hemming and hawing whether or not I should open the mail. I was afraid it might be a virus. But curious me did open it and was most happy that I did.
It was a lovely message from a New York woman who told me that she's been reading and enjoying my blog since day 1 -- over seven months ago. I have never seen a comment on my posts from this person, so she is indeed a secret admirer.
She introduced herself by name and asked if it was familiar to me. In my early months of reading blogs, I used to read her comments on another well-read and very popular blog. She and her husband even received a honorable post on that blog, and it stands out very clearly in my mind. I could even put a face to the name because there had been accompanying photos with the post.
She went on to compliment my writing and praise me as a person, and I was clearly moved. Not to discount any of your warm sentiments in online or offline comments... Yes, I appreciate and truly enjoy any and every comment/compliment I might get about my posts, but receiving a warm letter like this has true merit for me. It was as if I was a pretty new author with only a couple published books to my name, and she was a reader-fan who came out of the woodwork and took the time to write and say what kind of reader she was and what kind of writer I was.
It is clear that I did not forget who she was since I first learned about her. It is clearer that having read my words over these past few months, she has gotten a sense of who -- and what -- I am.
And to this woman, I once again write, "Thank you...for I am deeply moved by your words...and your experiences."
Signed: "Your Secret Admirer."
Too Much Information
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I'm always told I give too much information. Too many details. Too much too soon.
So I won't...THIS TIME. (or maybe I just did!?)
I'm always told I give too much information. Too many details. Too much too soon.
So I won't...THIS TIME. (or maybe I just did!?)
Monday, August 08, 2005
Jewku
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When I began reading Rabbi Neil Fleischmann's blog, I became more aware of the "haiku" poetry form. I would sometimes comment on his posts in copycat haiku form, which did not come too easily for me; perhaps that form comes easily to him.
But haiku opened my mind and got my creative juices flowing.
Just today, on my desk at work, under a pile of papers I found some haiku I'd written in May/June of this year. This is not ordinary haiku; rather, it's haiku with a twist...a Jewish twist. Thus it's called Jewku.
--written May 18:
In May of this year
I discovered Jewish verse
"Jewku" I call it.
Familiar haiku
with some Jewish content (sales)
for you a bargain.
Wholesale poetry
All new, not used, metziahs.
--written May 19:
Sunday morning brunch.
a schmear of cream cheese and lox
on toasted bagel.
--written June 1:
Tribal laws decree
you are Jewish if Mom is.
Your dad does not count.
******
Good cooks run rampant
amidst my family's men--
tastefully good men.
When I began reading Rabbi Neil Fleischmann's blog, I became more aware of the "haiku" poetry form. I would sometimes comment on his posts in copycat haiku form, which did not come too easily for me; perhaps that form comes easily to him.
But haiku opened my mind and got my creative juices flowing.
Just today, on my desk at work, under a pile of papers I found some haiku I'd written in May/June of this year. This is not ordinary haiku; rather, it's haiku with a twist...a Jewish twist. Thus it's called Jewku.
--written May 18:
In May of this year
I discovered Jewish verse
"Jewku" I call it.
Familiar haiku
with some Jewish content (sales)
for you a bargain.
Wholesale poetry
All new, not used, metziahs.
--written May 19:
Sunday morning brunch.
a schmear of cream cheese and lox
on toasted bagel.
--written June 1:
Tribal laws decree
you are Jewish if Mom is.
Your dad does not count.
******
Good cooks run rampant
amidst my family's men--
tastefully good men.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
The Three Most Important Words
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A couple of weeks ago, I received an e-mail from www.aish.com -- it was a short film about the three most important words in a relationship. Those words are not I LOVE YOU -- what you might most expect them to be.
Follow this link and see for yourself what those words are.
I sent the link to my husband that day after glancing quickly at the movie, just 'cause I thought the movie was cute.
Here is what he wrote back:
for all my past mistakes I would like to say to you -- I WAS WRONG
for all my future mistakes I would like to say to you -- I WILL BE WRONG
I LOVE YOU!
A couple of weeks ago, I received an e-mail from www.aish.com -- it was a short film about the three most important words in a relationship. Those words are not I LOVE YOU -- what you might most expect them to be.
Follow this link and see for yourself what those words are.
I sent the link to my husband that day after glancing quickly at the movie, just 'cause I thought the movie was cute.
Here is what he wrote back:
for all my past mistakes I would like to say to you -- I WAS WRONG
for all my future mistakes I would like to say to you -- I WILL BE WRONG
I LOVE YOU!
"If I Had a Million Dollars...I'd Be Rich" [or not]
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I came home this evening to a telephone message from a friend saying that a mutual friend's father passed away this afternoon. The mutual friend is from Toronto but has lived in the U.S. for a number of years with her husband and children. Her mother passed away many years ago, and only her ailing father and two siblings who have no connection to her or her father remained.
My friend was in Toronto for the past week because she'd been told that her dad wasn't doing too well. Thank G-d there'd been quite an improvement in his health and he was to be transfered next week from a hospital to a nursing home for convalescing. My friend was planning to return to the States with her family because of family and work obligations.
Now her father is niftar, but I think they will sit shiva in the States because of the family situation.
Yes, she is a good daughter who kept traveling here to check on her father, who was in and out of hospitals for the past few years. Yes, it took somewhat of a mental, emotional and physical toll on her each time she came and left. And yes, there will be a noticeable absence in her life hereonafter.
I do know that this friend has now inherited millions of dollars, and that all along her father has been providing her with funds for day school, funds for buying a large home, funds for traveling, etc.
But who really cares how many millions this friend is now worth. Why? Because 1) she has lost a parent, and 2) this friend has M.S., and has had it for over 6 years.
Perhaps the money will fund medications for her, will have her be able to be on the receiving end of every new M.S. drug trial out there. But this M.S. has slowly been robbing her of her fine quality of life--her strength, her concentration, her physical mobility, her comfort levels, her family life.
At the end, what is she left with? A few million... But when you're an "avel" or a sick person, the money certainly doesn't make you rich. You're truly a millionaire when you have your family by your side and good health in your back pocket. All the rest can wait...
I came home this evening to a telephone message from a friend saying that a mutual friend's father passed away this afternoon. The mutual friend is from Toronto but has lived in the U.S. for a number of years with her husband and children. Her mother passed away many years ago, and only her ailing father and two siblings who have no connection to her or her father remained.
My friend was in Toronto for the past week because she'd been told that her dad wasn't doing too well. Thank G-d there'd been quite an improvement in his health and he was to be transfered next week from a hospital to a nursing home for convalescing. My friend was planning to return to the States with her family because of family and work obligations.
Now her father is niftar, but I think they will sit shiva in the States because of the family situation.
Yes, she is a good daughter who kept traveling here to check on her father, who was in and out of hospitals for the past few years. Yes, it took somewhat of a mental, emotional and physical toll on her each time she came and left. And yes, there will be a noticeable absence in her life hereonafter.
I do know that this friend has now inherited millions of dollars, and that all along her father has been providing her with funds for day school, funds for buying a large home, funds for traveling, etc.
But who really cares how many millions this friend is now worth. Why? Because 1) she has lost a parent, and 2) this friend has M.S., and has had it for over 6 years.
Perhaps the money will fund medications for her, will have her be able to be on the receiving end of every new M.S. drug trial out there. But this M.S. has slowly been robbing her of her fine quality of life--her strength, her concentration, her physical mobility, her comfort levels, her family life.
At the end, what is she left with? A few million... But when you're an "avel" or a sick person, the money certainly doesn't make you rich. You're truly a millionaire when you have your family by your side and good health in your back pocket. All the rest can wait...
"What a Pain in the...Head!"
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I know many egocentric people. I encounter them every day -- at work, in my private life, in my blogging world. Those are the people who like the spotlight turned "just so" to shine on them and whatever it is they are doing to think they deserve recognition.
Perhaps blogging itself is an egocentrism of sorts...maybe not so much when you write about political stances and current events and information that is already out there, but more when you write about yourself, your thoughts, your past, your present and your future. But in my mind that is called a personal blog. It reflects who and what you are. Like a raconteur, or a comedian, it's all "in the delivery."
I try not to be egocentric in any areas of my life; I've always dislike braggarts and extremely self-assured people, perhaps because I never was one. But there is one area where I am...and probably will always be... egocentric. And that is when I don't feel well, as happened today.
Although they developed later in life, I suffer quite frequently from sinus headaches/cluster headaches. This morning, I woke up with one of those headaches. It went from an awareness of a sinus headache, to a full-blown HEADACHE that bordered on migraine and nausea and sensitivity to smell and sound...and it lasted for HOURS.
Usually I go to shul with my youngest child midmorning. I did not go to shul, I barely got up out of bed, I ate no breakfast and leerily ate lunch. My day for the most part passed by while I was in bed, the shades pulled low to create darkness.
I got up around 10 a.m., deciding that maybe sitting outside on the kitchen deck, the warm breeze on my face, might do the trick. I'd already taken nasal spray and 2 extra-strength Tylenol. Sometimes the Tylenol kick in quickly, but not today. Yes, the setting out-of-doors was pleasant, but somehow I felt sicker, and went back to bed....and slept.
My daughter came in a couple of times to stroke my arm and say she hoped I felt better and to lie beside me and keep me company. She announced at 1:00 p.m. that it really was lunchtime, so I got up to prepare the table. Of course, after lunch, I went back to bed, to sleep, still wondering at my severe headache, but knowing I could not yet take another pill.
The day was sunny outside and beckoning me, but I could not get up out of that bed. I felt sorry for my children and husband that today they only had each other's company, and not Eema's. As I was sleeping, dreaming, waking, sleeping, dreaming, waking, they were being children without me.
Again, throughout the afternoon, my daughter came to check on my and lie with me and try to regale me with stories in order to comfort me. I told her I was sorry that I did not feel well, and as I kept apologizing to her, I thought: "G-d forbid, if I was a mother that truly had some long-term disabilitating, serious disease, how my children would suffer because I'd always have to excuse my inability to interact with them."
Thankfully by the time my husband left for shul in the evening, I felt that the meds had finally taken effect and that I was able to be there, with my children, downstairs, to give them shalosh seudos and be company for them till Shabbos would be over and my husband would return home.
I was rather sad that such a glorious day passed me by without me partaking of it. Yes, Shabbos is a day of rest, but today is certainly not what I had in mind for myself when I knew Shabbos was coming this week. And I'm sorry that my egocentrism reared its ugly head...but thankfully, my family understood and respected it. I hope that tomorrow when the sun shines, I'll be right there with my family, "shining" back at it.
I know many egocentric people. I encounter them every day -- at work, in my private life, in my blogging world. Those are the people who like the spotlight turned "just so" to shine on them and whatever it is they are doing to think they deserve recognition.
Perhaps blogging itself is an egocentrism of sorts...maybe not so much when you write about political stances and current events and information that is already out there, but more when you write about yourself, your thoughts, your past, your present and your future. But in my mind that is called a personal blog. It reflects who and what you are. Like a raconteur, or a comedian, it's all "in the delivery."
I try not to be egocentric in any areas of my life; I've always dislike braggarts and extremely self-assured people, perhaps because I never was one. But there is one area where I am...and probably will always be... egocentric. And that is when I don't feel well, as happened today.
Although they developed later in life, I suffer quite frequently from sinus headaches/cluster headaches. This morning, I woke up with one of those headaches. It went from an awareness of a sinus headache, to a full-blown HEADACHE that bordered on migraine and nausea and sensitivity to smell and sound...and it lasted for HOURS.
Usually I go to shul with my youngest child midmorning. I did not go to shul, I barely got up out of bed, I ate no breakfast and leerily ate lunch. My day for the most part passed by while I was in bed, the shades pulled low to create darkness.
I got up around 10 a.m., deciding that maybe sitting outside on the kitchen deck, the warm breeze on my face, might do the trick. I'd already taken nasal spray and 2 extra-strength Tylenol. Sometimes the Tylenol kick in quickly, but not today. Yes, the setting out-of-doors was pleasant, but somehow I felt sicker, and went back to bed....and slept.
My daughter came in a couple of times to stroke my arm and say she hoped I felt better and to lie beside me and keep me company. She announced at 1:00 p.m. that it really was lunchtime, so I got up to prepare the table. Of course, after lunch, I went back to bed, to sleep, still wondering at my severe headache, but knowing I could not yet take another pill.
The day was sunny outside and beckoning me, but I could not get up out of that bed. I felt sorry for my children and husband that today they only had each other's company, and not Eema's. As I was sleeping, dreaming, waking, sleeping, dreaming, waking, they were being children without me.
Again, throughout the afternoon, my daughter came to check on my and lie with me and try to regale me with stories in order to comfort me. I told her I was sorry that I did not feel well, and as I kept apologizing to her, I thought: "G-d forbid, if I was a mother that truly had some long-term disabilitating, serious disease, how my children would suffer because I'd always have to excuse my inability to interact with them."
Thankfully by the time my husband left for shul in the evening, I felt that the meds had finally taken effect and that I was able to be there, with my children, downstairs, to give them shalosh seudos and be company for them till Shabbos would be over and my husband would return home.
I was rather sad that such a glorious day passed me by without me partaking of it. Yes, Shabbos is a day of rest, but today is certainly not what I had in mind for myself when I knew Shabbos was coming this week. And I'm sorry that my egocentrism reared its ugly head...but thankfully, my family understood and respected it. I hope that tomorrow when the sun shines, I'll be right there with my family, "shining" back at it.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
You Ought To Cry, You Ought To Laugh, You Ought To Sign My Autograph...Book
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In 1972, when I was 11 years old, I got my first autograph book. Even at that young age, I was somewhat of a sentimental fool, wanting to "capture" moments in time by having people sign my book with personal messages.
Of course my peers weren't sentimental fools like me, and for the most part wrote silly rhymes and messages. My teachers, on the other hand, and other school administrators whom I approached for their words of wisdom wrote more meaningful lines.
Mrs. Rose, for example, my grade 5 General Studies teacher, wrote: "Dear Pearl/ Always question, always keep an open mind./Never accept something merely because someone has said it./ Be convinced of the validity of the thoughts before you accept them."
Or my grade 6 General Studies teacher, Judy Smithen, wrote: "Dear Pearl/ Good, better, best./Never let it rest/Until the good is better/And the better is best."
A few years later, my grade 8 English teacher, wrote: "To thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day; thou canst not then be false to any man."
As you can see, the teachers were always teaching, even in their messages to me.
I get a real kick out of those teachers, specifically those who taught me literature/creative writing, who, through their messages in my autograph book, declared that I had writing talent and they hoped I'd pursue it. I don't think writing a blog is what they really had in mind for me when they said I should pursue my writing!
It is interesting to look back though some of the messages and wonder about the people who wrote them; several are no longer with us, having died untimely deaths; some have married and divorced or remained single since they scrawled their names in my autograph book; some have gone on to powerful positions in the workplace or raised families. And others...well, my path has never crossed with theirs again since we parted ways in day school or high school.
Yes, I have three small autograph books that carried me from grade 5 through grade 13. As well, I have a beautiful scrapbook that doubled as sort of an autograph book when I was in high school. I shared it with those friends who were talented in the arts: they drew pictures for me amidst the pages, or wrote poetry, or song lyrics. Just as some of these people whom I no longer see or speak to must wonder if Pearl continued with her interest in writing, so I, too, wonder if they pursued the arts, in which they showed immense talent.
I think when I got my first autograph book, I was trying to emulate my mother. My mother had been given a beautiful embroidered blank-paged journal as a bat-mitzvah gift in 1943...and its pages, used as an autograph book/memory book, carried her through teenhood and young adulthood. This book is a work of art, a real collectible; it is rare to see an autograph book like that today.
The fountain pen curlicued script, the b & w or sepia-toned photos, the beautifully drawn cartoons and sketches, the embossed and stylish stickers, and the messages from the pens and pencils of friends and family capture a time period, a lifestyle and a youthfulness which helped define my mother and those around her.
I do know of another book her book reminds me of: Anne Frank's autograph book, which I saw in a special exhibition this past spring in Toronto. Of course, Anne and her sister Margot, were born just a few years earlier than my mother and her sister. But the parallels ran great: the books look the same, the family photographs look the same, some of the experiences are the same. The main differences are that my mother came from an Orthodox Jewish family living in Switzerland; Anne came from an assimilated family who'd moved from Germany to Holland. My mother and her family lived in a neutral country and survived the war. Anne Frank and her sister and mother did not survive.
The pages of my mother's autograph book depict a young girl's life as she comes of age and matures into a young adult amidst war and liberation, amidst the birth of the Jewish homeland, amidst higher education and a move into the work force.
Even if I can't understand everything I'm reading in the book, I could sit and look at it for hours at a time. Why? Because the language of love and friendship comes through in the look of the book, set on every one of its pages -- a universal language, it does not need any kind of translation.
I will share with you this poem that I'd copied onto the inside cover of one my autograph books. It captured for me what that autograph book was all about.
"Growing up means...
more than going from childhood to adulthood.
It is understanding life...
and knowing...YOURSELF
and trying to understand
...OTHERS..."
And I will leave you with this applicable quote that I'd copied into the cover of another of one of my autograph books:
"Like a kite
Cut from the string
Lightly the soul of my youth
Has taken flight."
--Takuboku
In 1972, when I was 11 years old, I got my first autograph book. Even at that young age, I was somewhat of a sentimental fool, wanting to "capture" moments in time by having people sign my book with personal messages.
Of course my peers weren't sentimental fools like me, and for the most part wrote silly rhymes and messages. My teachers, on the other hand, and other school administrators whom I approached for their words of wisdom wrote more meaningful lines.
Mrs. Rose, for example, my grade 5 General Studies teacher, wrote: "Dear Pearl/ Always question, always keep an open mind./Never accept something merely because someone has said it./ Be convinced of the validity of the thoughts before you accept them."
Or my grade 6 General Studies teacher, Judy Smithen, wrote: "Dear Pearl/ Good, better, best./Never let it rest/Until the good is better/And the better is best."
A few years later, my grade 8 English teacher, wrote: "To thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day; thou canst not then be false to any man."
As you can see, the teachers were always teaching, even in their messages to me.
I get a real kick out of those teachers, specifically those who taught me literature/creative writing, who, through their messages in my autograph book, declared that I had writing talent and they hoped I'd pursue it. I don't think writing a blog is what they really had in mind for me when they said I should pursue my writing!
It is interesting to look back though some of the messages and wonder about the people who wrote them; several are no longer with us, having died untimely deaths; some have married and divorced or remained single since they scrawled their names in my autograph book; some have gone on to powerful positions in the workplace or raised families. And others...well, my path has never crossed with theirs again since we parted ways in day school or high school.
Yes, I have three small autograph books that carried me from grade 5 through grade 13. As well, I have a beautiful scrapbook that doubled as sort of an autograph book when I was in high school. I shared it with those friends who were talented in the arts: they drew pictures for me amidst the pages, or wrote poetry, or song lyrics. Just as some of these people whom I no longer see or speak to must wonder if Pearl continued with her interest in writing, so I, too, wonder if they pursued the arts, in which they showed immense talent.
I think when I got my first autograph book, I was trying to emulate my mother. My mother had been given a beautiful embroidered blank-paged journal as a bat-mitzvah gift in 1943...and its pages, used as an autograph book/memory book, carried her through teenhood and young adulthood. This book is a work of art, a real collectible; it is rare to see an autograph book like that today.
The fountain pen curlicued script, the b & w or sepia-toned photos, the beautifully drawn cartoons and sketches, the embossed and stylish stickers, and the messages from the pens and pencils of friends and family capture a time period, a lifestyle and a youthfulness which helped define my mother and those around her.
I do know of another book her book reminds me of: Anne Frank's autograph book, which I saw in a special exhibition this past spring in Toronto. Of course, Anne and her sister Margot, were born just a few years earlier than my mother and her sister. But the parallels ran great: the books look the same, the family photographs look the same, some of the experiences are the same. The main differences are that my mother came from an Orthodox Jewish family living in Switzerland; Anne came from an assimilated family who'd moved from Germany to Holland. My mother and her family lived in a neutral country and survived the war. Anne Frank and her sister and mother did not survive.
The pages of my mother's autograph book depict a young girl's life as she comes of age and matures into a young adult amidst war and liberation, amidst the birth of the Jewish homeland, amidst higher education and a move into the work force.
Even if I can't understand everything I'm reading in the book, I could sit and look at it for hours at a time. Why? Because the language of love and friendship comes through in the look of the book, set on every one of its pages -- a universal language, it does not need any kind of translation.
I will share with you this poem that I'd copied onto the inside cover of one my autograph books. It captured for me what that autograph book was all about.
"Growing up means...
more than going from childhood to adulthood.
It is understanding life...
and knowing...YOURSELF
and trying to understand
...OTHERS..."
And I will leave you with this applicable quote that I'd copied into the cover of another of one of my autograph books:
"Like a kite
Cut from the string
Lightly the soul of my youth
Has taken flight."
--Takuboku
Jewish Superheroes for Our Time
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I came across this wondrous site this morning. Wow... some mighty fine superheroes we have representing us.
And to think that all these years (since the "age of disco"), every Pesach I've been singing my own superhero song: "Matzah Man" to the tune of "Macho Man" by the Village People. Little did I know that other Jewish superheroes prevailed.
I came across this wondrous site this morning. Wow... some mighty fine superheroes we have representing us.
And to think that all these years (since the "age of disco"), every Pesach I've been singing my own superhero song: "Matzah Man" to the tune of "Macho Man" by the Village People. Little did I know that other Jewish superheroes prevailed.
The Oyster Police
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Please give a nice welcome to the Oyster Police, who have decided to work this blog with me.
http://www.cartoonstock.com/lowres/mly0273l.jpg
Please give a nice welcome to the Oyster Police, who have decided to work this blog with me.
http://www.cartoonstock.com/lowres/mly0273l.jpg
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
A Patchwork of Blogger Snippets
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I've just written this free-form poem, a composite of lines and phrases that I've extracted from my e-mail messages to fellow bloggers, and their e-mail messages to me. Each phrase is a different color, and I've just thrown them together to make some kind of (weird in its own way) sense.
Online with Bloggers
My chair was biting into my back and the pain was radiating into my skull.
A very surreal experience -- sequined shirt and all!
"PREMATURE POSTING."
Sweet dreams.
Keep up your writing, don't give up! Good things almost always come from good people.
It's almost like a secret society - we are understated in some ways and have a secret story life inside us, wanting to share it, but only when it's 'right'. Sometimes in spite of words of wisdom from others.
How many people is it worth writing for?
Is the content so strong (which I suspect that it is) that the form is intrinsically compelling?
Anyway, I haven't quite figured out what I think about the form...
I have a tendency to repeat phrases that work.
I have a tendency to repeat phrases that work.
I have a tendency to repeat phrases that work.
Kind regards.
I've just written this free-form poem, a composite of lines and phrases that I've extracted from my e-mail messages to fellow bloggers, and their e-mail messages to me. Each phrase is a different color, and I've just thrown them together to make some kind of (weird in its own way) sense.
Online with Bloggers
My chair was biting into my back and the pain was radiating into my skull.
A very surreal experience -- sequined shirt and all!
"PREMATURE POSTING."
Sweet dreams.
Keep up your writing, don't give up! Good things almost always come from good people.
It's almost like a secret society - we are understated in some ways and have a secret story life inside us, wanting to share it, but only when it's 'right'. Sometimes in spite of words of wisdom from others.
How many people is it worth writing for?
Is the content so strong (which I suspect that it is) that the form is intrinsically compelling?
Anyway, I haven't quite figured out what I think about the form...
I have a tendency to repeat phrases that work.
I have a tendency to repeat phrases that work.
I have a tendency to repeat phrases that work.
Kind regards.
Poetry in Motion
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The following are poems that I had published last year in Parchment, an annual Canadian-Jewish literary journal. It is an honor to be included in this journal, as well as being given the opportunity to read my work at the book's launch, held in conjunction with Toronto's Jewish Book Fair.
This journal attracts well-known Canadian Jewish authors, poets, playwrights and essayists, and to find my name and work among theirs is a "kavod" for me.
To top that, I have been in the company of a special poet in this book, both last year and two years earlier, when both our poetry was included and we were both asked to read at the launch. This special poet is my now-nineteen-year-old niece, my brother's daughter. When her work was included in the book in 2002, she was the youngest ever to submit and be included in the book. Last year, she was away for the reading, and her maternal grandmother read my niece's poem. Both the delivery and the piece were very beautiful.
Yesterday I submitted to Parchment a couple of poems I wrote earlier this year. I hope that a few months from now, I can share them with you as being "published" poems.
In the meantime, read these; they are glances into the Israel I remember from my stay between October 1983-March 1984.
Remembered Vignettes
i.
a stroke of ice-blue eye shadow here,
another stroke there.
sweep that pale peach blush up,
then draw it down.
light pink across the lower lover’s lips –
pucker.
dab a cotton puff.
and another.
herzliya sunset over a windswept beach.
ii.
atop a girls’ religious seminary
high in the land of Sefad
a sign proclaims:
WE WANT MOSHIACH NOW.
DO A MITZVAH…AND ANOTHER.
inside the cold stone building
girls are huddled in a central hall,
grouped around an ancient-looking black telephone,
giggling, talking excitedly among themselves.
one girl holds the receiver to her ear,
waiting and listening.
“she’s on hold for a blessing from the rebbe,”
is explained to me when i cast a curious look.
suddenly a motion of hands waving. a hush.
“amen. thank you. goodbye.”
a collective smile.
“i got a blessing! i got a blessing!
the rebbe gave his blessings for a good shidduch!”
an impromptu hora is danced.
these future brides without their grooms.
iii.
such bare walls.
an old, chipped wooden wardrobe.
two single cots.
negelwasser basins wait patiently below each.
a naked bulb hangs low overhead.
accentuating, illuminating –
damn!
forgot to turn off the light before sundown.
no shabbos goys here.
i sleep a restless sleep.
iv.
climbing the darkened stairway
up to the fifth floor
on a friday night
i ponder the situation.
i, an outsider, have been invited
to be a guest at this stranger’s apartment.
perhaps not a stranger…?
perhaps, rather, a peer from days gone by,
i’ve been told.
i enter the apartment and blink with the
sudden brightness.
the room comes into focus.
a shabbos table
bedecked with white linen cloth, silverware
and fine china.
at one end sit two large round challahs
and a wine bottle
accompanied by a platter of gefilte fish and
dish of pink horseradish.
am i the shabbos queen, after all?
“chaya!”
i look from where this booming voice has come
and see a robust man
seated at the other end of the table.
black beard blending with black jacket
and black hat askew on his head.
that face i don’t recognize,
but that voice i know.
and i am once again in a crowded,
fifth-grade schoolyard during recess…
“can i have some of your fritos?” you ask.
The following are poems that I had published last year in Parchment, an annual Canadian-Jewish literary journal. It is an honor to be included in this journal, as well as being given the opportunity to read my work at the book's launch, held in conjunction with Toronto's Jewish Book Fair.
This journal attracts well-known Canadian Jewish authors, poets, playwrights and essayists, and to find my name and work among theirs is a "kavod" for me.
To top that, I have been in the company of a special poet in this book, both last year and two years earlier, when both our poetry was included and we were both asked to read at the launch. This special poet is my now-nineteen-year-old niece, my brother's daughter. When her work was included in the book in 2002, she was the youngest ever to submit and be included in the book. Last year, she was away for the reading, and her maternal grandmother read my niece's poem. Both the delivery and the piece were very beautiful.
Yesterday I submitted to Parchment a couple of poems I wrote earlier this year. I hope that a few months from now, I can share them with you as being "published" poems.
In the meantime, read these; they are glances into the Israel I remember from my stay between October 1983-March 1984.
Remembered Vignettes
i.
a stroke of ice-blue eye shadow here,
another stroke there.
sweep that pale peach blush up,
then draw it down.
light pink across the lower lover’s lips –
pucker.
dab a cotton puff.
and another.
herzliya sunset over a windswept beach.
ii.
atop a girls’ religious seminary
high in the land of Sefad
a sign proclaims:
WE WANT MOSHIACH NOW.
DO A MITZVAH…AND ANOTHER.
inside the cold stone building
girls are huddled in a central hall,
grouped around an ancient-looking black telephone,
giggling, talking excitedly among themselves.
one girl holds the receiver to her ear,
waiting and listening.
“she’s on hold for a blessing from the rebbe,”
is explained to me when i cast a curious look.
suddenly a motion of hands waving. a hush.
“amen. thank you. goodbye.”
a collective smile.
“i got a blessing! i got a blessing!
the rebbe gave his blessings for a good shidduch!”
an impromptu hora is danced.
these future brides without their grooms.
iii.
such bare walls.
an old, chipped wooden wardrobe.
two single cots.
negelwasser basins wait patiently below each.
a naked bulb hangs low overhead.
accentuating, illuminating –
damn!
forgot to turn off the light before sundown.
no shabbos goys here.
i sleep a restless sleep.
iv.
climbing the darkened stairway
up to the fifth floor
on a friday night
i ponder the situation.
i, an outsider, have been invited
to be a guest at this stranger’s apartment.
perhaps not a stranger…?
perhaps, rather, a peer from days gone by,
i’ve been told.
i enter the apartment and blink with the
sudden brightness.
the room comes into focus.
a shabbos table
bedecked with white linen cloth, silverware
and fine china.
at one end sit two large round challahs
and a wine bottle
accompanied by a platter of gefilte fish and
dish of pink horseradish.
am i the shabbos queen, after all?
“chaya!”
i look from where this booming voice has come
and see a robust man
seated at the other end of the table.
black beard blending with black jacket
and black hat askew on his head.
that face i don’t recognize,
but that voice i know.
and i am once again in a crowded,
fifth-grade schoolyard during recess…
“can i have some of your fritos?” you ask.
Play It Again, Pearl
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I've been blogging since early December, and once in a while, I think a replay of an earlier post is in order. Because I posted about my youngest child just before this post, I'll keep with that theme and present you (latecomers perhaps to Pearlies of Wisdom) with this post from last December.
Sit back, relax, put up your feet and start reading.
And if there's any way for you to track down and hear the referenced song (perhaps by going to Amy Sky's Web page), do so. The lyrics, as well as Amy's beautiful, mournful singing, stir the soul.
http://wwwpearliesofwisdom.blogspot.com/2004/12/its-little-things-that-count.html
I've been blogging since early December, and once in a while, I think a replay of an earlier post is in order. Because I posted about my youngest child just before this post, I'll keep with that theme and present you (latecomers perhaps to Pearlies of Wisdom) with this post from last December.
Sit back, relax, put up your feet and start reading.
And if there's any way for you to track down and hear the referenced song (perhaps by going to Amy Sky's Web page), do so. The lyrics, as well as Amy's beautiful, mournful singing, stir the soul.
http://wwwpearliesofwisdom.blogspot.com/2004/12/its-little-things-that-count.html
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Games, Grins & Giggles
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My little guy is an avid game player, whether it be sports, a board game, GameCube or Foozball.
He is not only a game player; he is a game winner! This kidlet, who's been around since 2000, has mastered the art of winning...and laughing deviously and demonically as he is declared "the winner!"
Yesterday we were playing a Pop-o-Matic game, circa 1970-- you know, Trouble, Headache, Frustration...and the less renowned Cross Over the Bridge. These board games are housed at my parents' from when I was a child living there. Mr. TorontoPearl, Jr., was my partner in Cross Over the Bridge. I did let him get away with stuff, which I probably wouldn't let a peer in my age group get away with, and he was a winner -- not once, not twice, but three times. The glee that broke out on his face made it all worthwhile.
He is a master controller when he plays GameCube with his older brother, and he learns from the games, too. Not just "bad things", but he can name countless baseball players and baseball teams from playing an online baseball game. He is thrilled to announce to me in the kitchen, "I'm winning...sixteen to nothing."
This evening we played Foozball. Perhaps it's that hand-eye masterful coordination he's acquired from his playing GameCube, but whatever the reason, he rightfully won each time we played...and we played several times. He shrieked with joy and giggled in abundance knowing that he "beat Eema."
As I'm wearing egg on my face from having been beaten (ooh...I saw that inintentional pun AFTER I typed this) by a five-year-old, that five-year-old is wearing a big grin from having beaten his mother.
And seeing that grin on that winner's face makes me realize something. Some years ago I rolled the dice, moved a few spaces ahead in life, rolled the dice again, acquired some prime real estate, rolled the dice again, and got some pieces to call my own.
I think I'm the biggest winner ... in THE GAME OF LIFE.
My little guy is an avid game player, whether it be sports, a board game, GameCube or Foozball.
He is not only a game player; he is a game winner! This kidlet, who's been around since 2000, has mastered the art of winning...and laughing deviously and demonically as he is declared "the winner!"
Yesterday we were playing a Pop-o-Matic game, circa 1970-- you know, Trouble, Headache, Frustration...and the less renowned Cross Over the Bridge. These board games are housed at my parents' from when I was a child living there. Mr. TorontoPearl, Jr., was my partner in Cross Over the Bridge. I did let him get away with stuff, which I probably wouldn't let a peer in my age group get away with, and he was a winner -- not once, not twice, but three times. The glee that broke out on his face made it all worthwhile.
He is a master controller when he plays GameCube with his older brother, and he learns from the games, too. Not just "bad things", but he can name countless baseball players and baseball teams from playing an online baseball game. He is thrilled to announce to me in the kitchen, "I'm winning...sixteen to nothing."
This evening we played Foozball. Perhaps it's that hand-eye masterful coordination he's acquired from his playing GameCube, but whatever the reason, he rightfully won each time we played...and we played several times. He shrieked with joy and giggled in abundance knowing that he "beat Eema."
As I'm wearing egg on my face from having been beaten (ooh...I saw that inintentional pun AFTER I typed this) by a five-year-old, that five-year-old is wearing a big grin from having beaten his mother.
And seeing that grin on that winner's face makes me realize something. Some years ago I rolled the dice, moved a few spaces ahead in life, rolled the dice again, acquired some prime real estate, rolled the dice again, and got some pieces to call my own.
I think I'm the biggest winner ... in THE GAME OF LIFE.
I'm on a (Blog) Roll...
Blogroll Me!
A Blogger's Prayer
Now I sit me
down to blog
on this great venue --
my weblog.
I pray the computer
my blog to keep
when I lay me
down to sleep.
I hope to rise to
read your critique
it's the necessary feedback
that I seek.
I thank you each
for all your time
for reading my words,
and reading my rhyme.
I must end here
my day is done
goodbye, fellow bloggers,
au revoir, everyone.
A Blogger's Prayer
Now I sit me
down to blog
on this great venue --
my weblog.
I pray the computer
my blog to keep
when I lay me
down to sleep.
I hope to rise to
read your critique
it's the necessary feedback
that I seek.
I thank you each
for all your time
for reading my words,
and reading my rhyme.
I must end here
my day is done
goodbye, fellow bloggers,
au revoir, everyone.
Do You Speak Blog?
Blogroll Me!
Hey, people, I just came up with a new term.
You know the term "doggone it" -- that pretty euphemism for "damn it"?
I just thought up "bloggone it".
It's a two-purpose word. I'm going to experience something today and then I'm going to "bloggone it!" Or, if I mess up my post and lose it without being able to recover it, I'll be likely to say, "Oh, bloggone it!"
Oh, and when I was typing this, I came up with another term: a bloglet.
If I allow you to guest post on my blog, you become a "bloglet"!
And if you're blogging too much, as I do, I might announce/declare a "blogs-out": a signal for turning off blogs and getting some much-needed sleep.
And then there's a "blogime" -- that pattern of action that sees you blogging before breakfast, at lunch and after dinner.
And sometimes, like me, you might be "blogged-out" -- you will have lost your brilliant ideas for the time being, will need to advertise for a bloglet and will heed the blogs-out signal.
Oh, bloggone it, my lunchtime is over.
Hey, people, I just came up with a new term.
You know the term "doggone it" -- that pretty euphemism for "damn it"?
I just thought up "bloggone it".
It's a two-purpose word. I'm going to experience something today and then I'm going to "bloggone it!" Or, if I mess up my post and lose it without being able to recover it, I'll be likely to say, "Oh, bloggone it!"
Oh, and when I was typing this, I came up with another term: a bloglet.
If I allow you to guest post on my blog, you become a "bloglet"!
And if you're blogging too much, as I do, I might announce/declare a "blogs-out": a signal for turning off blogs and getting some much-needed sleep.
And then there's a "blogime" -- that pattern of action that sees you blogging before breakfast, at lunch and after dinner.
And sometimes, like me, you might be "blogged-out" -- you will have lost your brilliant ideas for the time being, will need to advertise for a bloglet and will heed the blogs-out signal.
Oh, bloggone it, my lunchtime is over.
Monday, August 01, 2005
The Birds Flew Away
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In the past I've written about how conscious of "lashon harah" we were in our home, growing up. My parents' favorite analogy was: "Words are like birds. Once they're out, they fly away and you can't always retrieve them."
I had a close girlfriend call me today, ask if I had a few minutes to speak, and something in her tone made me suspicious. And rightfully so. She was not calling just for an idle chitchat -- we'd had all last Shabbos afternoon to do that. She was calling to make me aware that I had hurt her feelings this past Shabbos with something I said, and that I have a bad habit of bringing something in her life to the forefront.
I wasn't shocked at what she told me; I was aware on Saturday that I made a comment in a joking manner that, once it was out of my mouth, I had a sense of what it must've sounded like, and couldn't really backpedal. I wasn't shocked, I was hurt...not at her announcement, but at the fact that I had hurt someone close to me and unintentionally.
I told my friend that I was thankful she'd told me my shortcoming; that was the only way that I was to learn how to improve myself and be aware of her sensitivity about the issue. I know people who bear their grievances silently for years; at some point in time there is a major outburst and all the grievances of years gone by come tumbling forth. That is certainly not the way to handle matters, but matters have to be dealt with at hand, or with just a small passage of time, perhaps to think through the approach "the victim" wants to take in order to make their grievances known.
My friend thanked me for being so accepting of what she had to tell me, but I said to her, "Why should I have been anything but? There is nothing for me to be defensive about. I thank you that you told me."
I told her my self-improvement in this area will not happen overnight, even if I try hard enough. I let her know that she can slap my wrist, so to speak, if I say something again that bothers her.
Being honest is sometimes a chance people take, and being on the receiving end of honesty isn't always what one wants to hear...but sometimes it's the only way they CAN HEAR.
In the past I've written about how conscious of "lashon harah" we were in our home, growing up. My parents' favorite analogy was: "Words are like birds. Once they're out, they fly away and you can't always retrieve them."
I had a close girlfriend call me today, ask if I had a few minutes to speak, and something in her tone made me suspicious. And rightfully so. She was not calling just for an idle chitchat -- we'd had all last Shabbos afternoon to do that. She was calling to make me aware that I had hurt her feelings this past Shabbos with something I said, and that I have a bad habit of bringing something in her life to the forefront.
I wasn't shocked at what she told me; I was aware on Saturday that I made a comment in a joking manner that, once it was out of my mouth, I had a sense of what it must've sounded like, and couldn't really backpedal. I wasn't shocked, I was hurt...not at her announcement, but at the fact that I had hurt someone close to me and unintentionally.
I told my friend that I was thankful she'd told me my shortcoming; that was the only way that I was to learn how to improve myself and be aware of her sensitivity about the issue. I know people who bear their grievances silently for years; at some point in time there is a major outburst and all the grievances of years gone by come tumbling forth. That is certainly not the way to handle matters, but matters have to be dealt with at hand, or with just a small passage of time, perhaps to think through the approach "the victim" wants to take in order to make their grievances known.
My friend thanked me for being so accepting of what she had to tell me, but I said to her, "Why should I have been anything but? There is nothing for me to be defensive about. I thank you that you told me."
I told her my self-improvement in this area will not happen overnight, even if I try hard enough. I let her know that she can slap my wrist, so to speak, if I say something again that bothers her.
Being honest is sometimes a chance people take, and being on the receiving end of honesty isn't always what one wants to hear...but sometimes it's the only way they CAN HEAR.
How You Might Have Found Me
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I get such a kick out of seeing some of the entries that lead you to me, I have to note them every few days. Some leave me grinning, others leave my face frozen in the shape of a big question mark with "Huh?" scrawled across my forehead.
Aside from the repeated "Boy Vey!" or "Tefillat HaDerech" searches, some of these have been the key to helping you find me and my pearlies.
* wisdom for hard-headed kids ("I need to hear some of that wisdom!")
* "where the wild things are" + "temporary tattoo"
* kippah bruce willis ("Forget about my blog, what do those 2 items have in common, I wonder?")
* Hebrew Greek words mean pearl
* beis hamikdash and stock market ("What I would sacrifice for a hot stock market tip!")
* pearl of wisdom images
* bellagio macaroons recipe
* balabusta
* woman's queen size athletic clothing Toronto
Hey, I hope you found what you were looking for!
I get such a kick out of seeing some of the entries that lead you to me, I have to note them every few days. Some leave me grinning, others leave my face frozen in the shape of a big question mark with "Huh?" scrawled across my forehead.
Aside from the repeated "Boy Vey!" or "Tefillat HaDerech" searches, some of these have been the key to helping you find me and my pearlies.
* wisdom for hard-headed kids ("I need to hear some of that wisdom!")
* "where the wild things are" + "temporary tattoo"
* kippah bruce willis ("Forget about my blog, what do those 2 items have in common, I wonder?")
* Hebrew Greek words mean pearl
* beis hamikdash and stock market ("What I would sacrifice for a hot stock market tip!")
* pearl of wisdom images
* bellagio macaroons recipe
* balabusta
* woman's queen size athletic clothing Toronto
Hey, I hope you found what you were looking for!
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Sadness Speaks to Me
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Shavuah Tov, everyone. I hope those of you who observe Shabbos had a wonderful one, and those of you who don't, had a wonderful Saturday.
Many a time in my past posts, I've mentioned or hinted at my sensitivity. I have always had a very strong sense of compassion for the people around me, feeling what they were feeling: angst, melancholy, anger, sadness. But most of all, it is sadness that has always spoken to me.
I don't thrive on sad tidings, or emotional turmoil of others, but I do feel for people -- both friends or strangers -- when they are feeling low, whether they feel it for superficial reasons or for major crises. I try to let them know that I am there for them, if not in body, then in spirit. I share my thoughts and my words to help ease their personal pains; whether these words do anything at all, I don't know, but I want these people to know that I will listen, I will help if I'm able, I will offer suggestions if the person is seeking that; namely, I will be a friend or confidante if that is what they are needing.
Yes, I do take some things in my life for granted, but am trying to stray from that posture. After all, how can I do that, yet count my blessings at the same time? And believe me, I do count my blessings all the time.
In recognizing what problems, issues, family dynamics, etc. lay beyond mine, it is clear that I count my blessings even more -- thankful for family, thankful for health, thankful for a roof over our heads, thankful for a job, thankful for money in the bank, thankful for good friends and thankful for recognizing that we indeed have blessings.
It is most sad that sometimes it is only at the expense of someone else's sadness and despair that you recognize just how truly gifted and blessed you are. That someone else does not have to be a friend or someone close to you, but that someone does have a story to tell...and in reading that story, you realize that your own story doesn't amount to a hill of beans.
I've read some of those stories. I've felt my heart melt. I've cried those soulful tears. I've written those notes of compassion. I've let the people know that I, as a stranger, have been touched by their sadness, and I wish them some eventual peace of mind, peace of heart. I continue to read those stories. You should too. Then you might truly stop complaining about the small details in your life, look beyond and see that all you cherish sometimes is worth more than life itself.
Please read these stories, let your own heart melt and recognize that life and all it offers is never to be taken for granted.
www.seraphicpress.com
http://fiveyearslater.blogspot.com
http://glenh.blogspot.com
http://elie-expo.blogspot.com
Shavuah Tov, everyone. I hope those of you who observe Shabbos had a wonderful one, and those of you who don't, had a wonderful Saturday.
Many a time in my past posts, I've mentioned or hinted at my sensitivity. I have always had a very strong sense of compassion for the people around me, feeling what they were feeling: angst, melancholy, anger, sadness. But most of all, it is sadness that has always spoken to me.
I don't thrive on sad tidings, or emotional turmoil of others, but I do feel for people -- both friends or strangers -- when they are feeling low, whether they feel it for superficial reasons or for major crises. I try to let them know that I am there for them, if not in body, then in spirit. I share my thoughts and my words to help ease their personal pains; whether these words do anything at all, I don't know, but I want these people to know that I will listen, I will help if I'm able, I will offer suggestions if the person is seeking that; namely, I will be a friend or confidante if that is what they are needing.
Yes, I do take some things in my life for granted, but am trying to stray from that posture. After all, how can I do that, yet count my blessings at the same time? And believe me, I do count my blessings all the time.
In recognizing what problems, issues, family dynamics, etc. lay beyond mine, it is clear that I count my blessings even more -- thankful for family, thankful for health, thankful for a roof over our heads, thankful for a job, thankful for money in the bank, thankful for good friends and thankful for recognizing that we indeed have blessings.
It is most sad that sometimes it is only at the expense of someone else's sadness and despair that you recognize just how truly gifted and blessed you are. That someone else does not have to be a friend or someone close to you, but that someone does have a story to tell...and in reading that story, you realize that your own story doesn't amount to a hill of beans.
I've read some of those stories. I've felt my heart melt. I've cried those soulful tears. I've written those notes of compassion. I've let the people know that I, as a stranger, have been touched by their sadness, and I wish them some eventual peace of mind, peace of heart. I continue to read those stories. You should too. Then you might truly stop complaining about the small details in your life, look beyond and see that all you cherish sometimes is worth more than life itself.
Please read these stories, let your own heart melt and recognize that life and all it offers is never to be taken for granted.
www.seraphicpress.com
http://fiveyearslater.blogspot.com
http://glenh.blogspot.com
http://elie-expo.blogspot.com
Thursday, July 28, 2005
...You Don't Say...
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Recently a person whom I know from years ago, a younger sibling to a former classmate, had reason to talk to my husband in shul. She was arranging a Shabbos playdate for her daughter with mine and gladly passed her daughter off to my husband to spend lunch and the afternoon at the House of TorontoPearl.
My husband later took the little girl back to shul with him at mincha time, so that she could be reunited with her parent. Shabbos is out rather late here, and for a seven-year-old, who's had to walk a far distance to reach a new friend's house, "tired" was the word of the day.
The next day I received a phone call from the little girl's mother, thanking us profusely for hosting her daughter for so many hours. She went on to explain how she'd spotted my husband, knew he was with my daughter and that my daughter and her daughter were friends at day camp and that maybe they could get together later in the afternoon. My husband was the one to take the bull by the horns and put forth the invitation for lunch and the afternoon at our house and the suggestion of the "reunion" plans. This girl's mother said, "Your husband is very friendly. He's such a nice man."
You don't say...
I think I found my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow when I found him. When I first met him, he impressed me as friendly and genuine and warm. When friends and family met him, they considered him in the same way. When he and I were just engaged, the father-in-law of one of his bosses told me what a fine, menschlich young man I was involved with.
For people to see him the way I saw him meant a lot to me and told me a lot about him. For people to continue to see him in that way means a lot to me.
I could not have seen myself marry anyone BUT a nice and decent and warm and friendly guy like him. From his first day as a new father -- "How do I hold the baby?" -- to the seasoned father who does ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING for his wife and children and for the people around him -- I have never doubted my decision to marry this man, to give my heart to him and to grow old together with him.
In fact, I love him very much.
...You don't say...
*********************************
(If TorontoPearl's husband is reading this, just remember... we got engaged on August 22, 1993 and we got married on December 19, 1993 -- don't reverse the numbers!
I can just imagine you now, Toronto Pearl's husband. You're probably replying, "...You don't say...")
Recently a person whom I know from years ago, a younger sibling to a former classmate, had reason to talk to my husband in shul. She was arranging a Shabbos playdate for her daughter with mine and gladly passed her daughter off to my husband to spend lunch and the afternoon at the House of TorontoPearl.
My husband later took the little girl back to shul with him at mincha time, so that she could be reunited with her parent. Shabbos is out rather late here, and for a seven-year-old, who's had to walk a far distance to reach a new friend's house, "tired" was the word of the day.
The next day I received a phone call from the little girl's mother, thanking us profusely for hosting her daughter for so many hours. She went on to explain how she'd spotted my husband, knew he was with my daughter and that my daughter and her daughter were friends at day camp and that maybe they could get together later in the afternoon. My husband was the one to take the bull by the horns and put forth the invitation for lunch and the afternoon at our house and the suggestion of the "reunion" plans. This girl's mother said, "Your husband is very friendly. He's such a nice man."
You don't say...
I think I found my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow when I found him. When I first met him, he impressed me as friendly and genuine and warm. When friends and family met him, they considered him in the same way. When he and I were just engaged, the father-in-law of one of his bosses told me what a fine, menschlich young man I was involved with.
For people to see him the way I saw him meant a lot to me and told me a lot about him. For people to continue to see him in that way means a lot to me.
I could not have seen myself marry anyone BUT a nice and decent and warm and friendly guy like him. From his first day as a new father -- "How do I hold the baby?" -- to the seasoned father who does ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING for his wife and children and for the people around him -- I have never doubted my decision to marry this man, to give my heart to him and to grow old together with him.
In fact, I love him very much.
...You don't say...
*********************************
(If TorontoPearl's husband is reading this, just remember... we got engaged on August 22, 1993 and we got married on December 19, 1993 -- don't reverse the numbers!
I can just imagine you now, Toronto Pearl's husband. You're probably replying, "...You don't say...")
Seek... and Ye Shall Find
Blogroll Me!
These recent searches might've led you to Pearlies of Wisdom:
1) words of wisdom on death of a street bum
2) Boy Vey! (I've had many of those searches, as I once critiqued (read: criticized!) a book by that title)
3) "Match Made in Manhattan" blog
4) "traveler's prayer" English translation Jewish
5) Welcome back to school messages for parents
6) tadig hints (I realized after I saw this search that I'd written about a Persian rice dish, tadig, that I'd enjoyed while in L.A. last month)
I really want to know about #1 and #5.
I've not eulogized any street bums, here or abroad.
But I could use a welcome back to school message. However, I picture it goes something like this:
"Welcome back to tuition headaches, financial strains, school supply lists, pettiness on the playground, cattiness in the classroom, hell in the hallway, parental peer pressure, lots of professional-development-days- so-you'd-better-find-a-caregiver-for-your-children-for-all-those-days-that-they're-off-and-you-and-your-husband-are-working, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.... Isn't it nice to be back? "
These recent searches might've led you to Pearlies of Wisdom:
1) words of wisdom on death of a street bum
2) Boy Vey! (I've had many of those searches, as I once critiqued (read: criticized!) a book by that title)
3) "Match Made in Manhattan" blog
4) "traveler's prayer" English translation Jewish
5) Welcome back to school messages for parents
6) tadig hints (I realized after I saw this search that I'd written about a Persian rice dish, tadig, that I'd enjoyed while in L.A. last month)
I really want to know about #1 and #5.
I've not eulogized any street bums, here or abroad.
But I could use a welcome back to school message. However, I picture it goes something like this:
"Welcome back to tuition headaches, financial strains, school supply lists, pettiness on the playground, cattiness in the classroom, hell in the hallway, parental peer pressure, lots of professional-development-days- so-you'd-better-find-a-caregiver-for-your-children-for-all-those-days-that-they're-off-and-you-and-your-husband-are-working, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.... Isn't it nice to be back? "
Adventures in Conversation -- AND "French Rabbit"
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I was flipping through a magazine late at night when an ad caught my eye. It was for a brand of wine from Australia; I couldn't care less about the product, but the ad, an interesting one, associated the wine with "Adventures in Conversation." There was a kind of road map running across a 2-page spread, a foldout page, and scattered along the road map were points of reference. They got me thinking about what we do when we hold conversations, and here are the points of reference for you to think about.
Describe
Ponder
Question
Relate
Engage
Postulate
Advise
Contrast
Toast
Offend
Apologize
Suggest
React
Celebrate
Coax
Confide
Analyze
Savor
Listen
Speculate
Compare
Giggle
DIvulge
and lastly...
DISCOVER
Okay, now talk amongst yourselves....
***************************************
Today I received an e-mail ad for a new product put out by the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, a board that was so uncontrolled, that the countless numbers of people who work there were going to go on strike...but it somehow got bypassed last evening.
Anyhow this ad was for a new wine, packaged not in a bottle or flask, but in a TETRA PACK -- those recyclable cardboard boxes that hold milk or juice.
FIrstly, I wouldn't be buying any kind of alcohol, even a good wine, in a TETRA PACK.
Secondly, I wouldn't buy a wine product that's called "French Rabbit." It sounds much too gross for me, certainly not like the name of a wine. It sounds like a cocktail --"Yes, I'll have a French Rabbit...hold the cherry." Or like a very erotic French film: "Yeah, I went with my friends to see 'French Rabbit' at the Fox Cinema in the Beaches. Truffaut knew what he was doing when he made that film. I didn't even need the subtitles; I understood pretty much of what was happening from what I saw on-screen."
"French Rabbit" -- ewwwwww.......
I was flipping through a magazine late at night when an ad caught my eye. It was for a brand of wine from Australia; I couldn't care less about the product, but the ad, an interesting one, associated the wine with "Adventures in Conversation." There was a kind of road map running across a 2-page spread, a foldout page, and scattered along the road map were points of reference. They got me thinking about what we do when we hold conversations, and here are the points of reference for you to think about.
Describe
Ponder
Question
Relate
Engage
Postulate
Advise
Contrast
Toast
Offend
Apologize
Suggest
React
Celebrate
Coax
Confide
Analyze
Savor
Listen
Speculate
Compare
Giggle
DIvulge
and lastly...
DISCOVER
Okay, now talk amongst yourselves....
***************************************
Today I received an e-mail ad for a new product put out by the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, a board that was so uncontrolled, that the countless numbers of people who work there were going to go on strike...but it somehow got bypassed last evening.
Anyhow this ad was for a new wine, packaged not in a bottle or flask, but in a TETRA PACK -- those recyclable cardboard boxes that hold milk or juice.
FIrstly, I wouldn't be buying any kind of alcohol, even a good wine, in a TETRA PACK.
Secondly, I wouldn't buy a wine product that's called "French Rabbit." It sounds much too gross for me, certainly not like the name of a wine. It sounds like a cocktail --"Yes, I'll have a French Rabbit...hold the cherry." Or like a very erotic French film: "Yeah, I went with my friends to see 'French Rabbit' at the Fox Cinema in the Beaches. Truffaut knew what he was doing when he made that film. I didn't even need the subtitles; I understood pretty much of what was happening from what I saw on-screen."
"French Rabbit" -- ewwwwww.......
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Color My World
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Doctor Bean has just assisted in doing emergency surgery on my blog, patiently and wisely guiding me through a "colorotechnosis"-- helping to reinstate color into my life.
I thank you and my blog thanks you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
In his infinite wisdom, he has also helped me discover other buttons missing from my life that could be a definite turn-on, such as "font" and "size". (excuse my tongue-in-cheekiness)
I think I will put them all to good use.
Thank you, Doctor Bean. Payment is pending...
Doctor Bean has just assisted in doing emergency surgery on my blog, patiently and wisely guiding me through a "colorotechnosis"-- helping to reinstate color into my life.
I thank you and my blog thanks you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
In his infinite wisdom, he has also helped me discover other buttons missing from my life that could be a definite turn-on, such as "font" and "size". (excuse my tongue-in-cheekiness)
I think I will put them all to good use.
Thank you, Doctor Bean. Payment is pending...
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Shabbos Nachamu...or Life's Funny Like That
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Shabbos Nachamu holds some personal significance for me.
One summer(perhaps 1991) I was in NY's Catskill Mountains at a NY-based singles' Shabbos Nachamu weekend being held at the Concord Hotel. I'd traveled to NYC to be with a girl whom I'd become friends with the previous summer at a Niagara Falls singles' shabbaton. She'd planned ahead that we'd spend the weekend at the Concord and so she made plans through a NY-based group for the two of us, as well as for 3 or 4 of her friends that were going to be there too.
It was a fun Shabbos Nachamu weekend, even if I didn't meet the man of my dreams.
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1993. I've already been dating "the one" since December 1992 and we'd decided that some point in the summertime we'd get engaged. I spent Shabbos Nachamu 1993 at "the one's" mother's home, with "the one" being housed in a room down the hall. I recall when Shabbos was over and I called my parents to wish them a shavuah tov, my father got on the line and said "NU? So any news?" "No, Dad...don't worry, it'll happen." He told me that he remembers that back home (in Shtetlville)that people got engaged around this time. (Okay, so my father and mother, as well as I, only had to wait a few more weeks for that special moment.)
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1997. I'm married, and later in the afternoon I'm having contractions with baby # 2, so it's not really a relaxing Shabbos as the name depicts. We hope to hold out till Shabbos is over, but that doesn't happen. We have a prearranged taxi service with set fee and $ for the driver to pick up (we looked into the halachic aspects...just in case of this scenario), we go to the hospital, and baby daughter is born about 25 minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that, Shabbos Nachamu is over, and we happily get to call family members and let them know how we spent our Shabbos Nachamu.
In hindsight, perhaps we should have given our daughter the name "Nechama"/comfort, in honor of the day she was born. But even without that name, but with her other two beautiful given names, she is a continual comfort in our lives.
Thinking ahead, I hope you all have a wonderful and significant Shabbos Nachamu yourselves.
Shabbos Nachamu holds some personal significance for me.
One summer(perhaps 1991) I was in NY's Catskill Mountains at a NY-based singles' Shabbos Nachamu weekend being held at the Concord Hotel. I'd traveled to NYC to be with a girl whom I'd become friends with the previous summer at a Niagara Falls singles' shabbaton. She'd planned ahead that we'd spend the weekend at the Concord and so she made plans through a NY-based group for the two of us, as well as for 3 or 4 of her friends that were going to be there too.
It was a fun Shabbos Nachamu weekend, even if I didn't meet the man of my dreams.
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1993. I've already been dating "the one" since December 1992 and we'd decided that some point in the summertime we'd get engaged. I spent Shabbos Nachamu 1993 at "the one's" mother's home, with "the one" being housed in a room down the hall. I recall when Shabbos was over and I called my parents to wish them a shavuah tov, my father got on the line and said "NU? So any news?" "No, Dad...don't worry, it'll happen." He told me that he remembers that back home (in Shtetlville)that people got engaged around this time. (Okay, so my father and mother, as well as I, only had to wait a few more weeks for that special moment.)
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1997. I'm married, and later in the afternoon I'm having contractions with baby # 2, so it's not really a relaxing Shabbos as the name depicts. We hope to hold out till Shabbos is over, but that doesn't happen. We have a prearranged taxi service with set fee and $ for the driver to pick up (we looked into the halachic aspects...just in case of this scenario), we go to the hospital, and baby daughter is born about 25 minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that, Shabbos Nachamu is over, and we happily get to call family members and let them know how we spent our Shabbos Nachamu.
In hindsight, perhaps we should have given our daughter the name "Nechama"/comfort, in honor of the day she was born. But even without that name, but with her other two beautiful given names, she is a continual comfort in our lives.
Thinking ahead, I hope you all have a wonderful and significant Shabbos Nachamu yourselves.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Bloggers... A Class of Their Own
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"Class, I'm TorontoPearl, and today I will be your substitute teacher."
Boos and hisses, grumbles and mumbles can be heard.
"Where's the regular teacher? Why is she missing? Did she give you a hint as to what she's up to?" calls out Rochelle Krich.
"Oh, Miss Manners is off on a holiday from blogging for this afternoon."
"Does this mean we have to listen to you?" blurts out Jackbenimble.
"Oh, Jack, be quiet!" says Stacey. "Stop behaving like the monkey you are."
"Who's talking, Shmatta Queen, ex-Clevelander? Why should I be quiet -- U2 have to be quiet!"
"Class, class. I don't have very long to teach you this lesson, so please pay attention. Pick up your notepads and start writing this stuff down."
"Can I use my Treo?" asks Doctor Bean.
And ball-and-chain, his best friend, is sitting beside him in some fabulous red leather chair that she brought from home. "I'll let Doctor Bean take notes for me," she announces.
"And I think I'll use my new pen with its vibrating tip," adds Psycho Toddler.
"Hey, guys, just listen to the nice teacher. You all sound like a bunch of noisy bees in their hives," says Treppenwitz.
"Okay, thank you --"
"Psst, Robert! Can you keep a secret?" whispers Karen in the back row.
(Robert looks over his shoulder.) "Y-yeah, I-I can," he stutters anxiously.
"I think you love me," announces Karen.
"I love you!?" blurts out Robert, suddenly realizing that everyone has heard. He feels a headache coming on.
The class breaks out in songsong: "Robert loves Karen...and he's gonna marry her... Robert and Karen, sitting in a tree, talking about movies, and the Lincoln Square shul, he's gonna marry her when they're well out of school!"
"Silence, class. As I said, I'm not here for a long time, so please show some respect. Be polite. And save your comments for after class. Now, I'd like someone to name me some tips that you need to know about being a blogger."
A young man raises his hand.
"Yes, A Simple Jew?"
He speaks quietly but firmly. "One should use fewer words to have the most impact. One should speak from the heart, and if necessary and available, use citations."
"Very good. Now that young man, over there... Neil. Please answer the same question."
"One should certainly consider his or her audience. Pretend you're a teacher relating to students or a rabbi relating to his congregants. A few jokes can't hurt, either, nor can some references to classic TV shows and books."
"And you, Mr. Rubin. Put down that CD of Matisyahu; now is not music class. So what do you offer the class?"
"Um, LIFE is what you make it."
"I'll drink to that!" pipes up Air Time. "L'chaim! Hey, if we're drinking, maybe we should be eating too. How about some barbecued kishka and steaks?"
OrthoMom, Still Wonderin' and Just Passing Through start talking amongst themselves in the corner of the classroom.
"You three are being very rude. Avoid inside jokes -- you're alienating the rest of the class. Now, Mirty...where's sweet Mirty?"
"She went to Israel," advises Stacey. "We're gonna miss her for a couple of weeks, aren't we, guys?"
"Ye...s....s..." is heard in unison.
"Does anyone else have a comment to make about today's topic of discussion?"
"Do you people like outspokeness? I like outspokeness...I like honesty...I like to rant about my parents and the people around me. I'm very tongue-in-cheek, but I think people like that, too," offers up Yettabettaboo.
"Very, very good, class. I like what you had to say. Now we will have a very quick spelling lesson, so please take notes:
"Your does NOT MEAN you are. Your is the possessive form of something belonging to you. YOU'RE means you are. Get that straight.
"Its is the possessive form of something belonging to it. IT'S means it is.
"But I think the bell just rang, so I have to stop here for now. I didn't get to ask everyone their thoughts on blogging today-- sorry, Ink As Rain, Ralphie, and as well, there were a few students, such as Sara, missing from this session. No doubt Five Years Later we'll see a new stream of students interested in blogging. And if we're lucky, perhaps RenReb will be a guest speaker at the next class. Class dismissed...!"
"Class, I'm TorontoPearl, and today I will be your substitute teacher."
Boos and hisses, grumbles and mumbles can be heard.
"Where's the regular teacher? Why is she missing? Did she give you a hint as to what she's up to?" calls out Rochelle Krich.
"Oh, Miss Manners is off on a holiday from blogging for this afternoon."
"Does this mean we have to listen to you?" blurts out Jackbenimble.
"Oh, Jack, be quiet!" says Stacey. "Stop behaving like the monkey you are."
"Who's talking, Shmatta Queen, ex-Clevelander? Why should I be quiet -- U2 have to be quiet!"
"Class, class. I don't have very long to teach you this lesson, so please pay attention. Pick up your notepads and start writing this stuff down."
"Can I use my Treo?" asks Doctor Bean.
And ball-and-chain, his best friend, is sitting beside him in some fabulous red leather chair that she brought from home. "I'll let Doctor Bean take notes for me," she announces.
"And I think I'll use my new pen with its vibrating tip," adds Psycho Toddler.
"Hey, guys, just listen to the nice teacher. You all sound like a bunch of noisy bees in their hives," says Treppenwitz.
"Okay, thank you --"
"Psst, Robert! Can you keep a secret?" whispers Karen in the back row.
(Robert looks over his shoulder.) "Y-yeah, I-I can," he stutters anxiously.
"I think you love me," announces Karen.
"I love you!?" blurts out Robert, suddenly realizing that everyone has heard. He feels a headache coming on.
The class breaks out in songsong: "Robert loves Karen...and he's gonna marry her... Robert and Karen, sitting in a tree, talking about movies, and the Lincoln Square shul, he's gonna marry her when they're well out of school!"
"Silence, class. As I said, I'm not here for a long time, so please show some respect. Be polite. And save your comments for after class. Now, I'd like someone to name me some tips that you need to know about being a blogger."
A young man raises his hand.
"Yes, A Simple Jew?"
He speaks quietly but firmly. "One should use fewer words to have the most impact. One should speak from the heart, and if necessary and available, use citations."
"Very good. Now that young man, over there... Neil. Please answer the same question."
"One should certainly consider his or her audience. Pretend you're a teacher relating to students or a rabbi relating to his congregants. A few jokes can't hurt, either, nor can some references to classic TV shows and books."
"And you, Mr. Rubin. Put down that CD of Matisyahu; now is not music class. So what do you offer the class?"
"Um, LIFE is what you make it."
"I'll drink to that!" pipes up Air Time. "L'chaim! Hey, if we're drinking, maybe we should be eating too. How about some barbecued kishka and steaks?"
OrthoMom, Still Wonderin' and Just Passing Through start talking amongst themselves in the corner of the classroom.
"You three are being very rude. Avoid inside jokes -- you're alienating the rest of the class. Now, Mirty...where's sweet Mirty?"
"She went to Israel," advises Stacey. "We're gonna miss her for a couple of weeks, aren't we, guys?"
"Ye...s....s..." is heard in unison.
"Does anyone else have a comment to make about today's topic of discussion?"
"Do you people like outspokeness? I like outspokeness...I like honesty...I like to rant about my parents and the people around me. I'm very tongue-in-cheek, but I think people like that, too," offers up Yettabettaboo.
"Very, very good, class. I like what you had to say. Now we will have a very quick spelling lesson, so please take notes:
"Your does NOT MEAN you are. Your is the possessive form of something belonging to you. YOU'RE means you are. Get that straight.
"Its is the possessive form of something belonging to it. IT'S means it is.
"But I think the bell just rang, so I have to stop here for now. I didn't get to ask everyone their thoughts on blogging today-- sorry, Ink As Rain, Ralphie, and as well, there were a few students, such as Sara, missing from this session. No doubt Five Years Later we'll see a new stream of students interested in blogging. And if we're lucky, perhaps RenReb will be a guest speaker at the next class. Class dismissed...!"
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Transformers ... Take on a New Life
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It came to my attention recently that Steven Spielberg, who seems to have his hand in every pie in Hollywood, will be the executive producer of an upcoming movie based on the Transformers animated TV show, and Transformers toys.
These are exactly as named: robots who, when you twist and turn their body parts, become other objects -- eg. hiding behind the belly of a large robot might be a fire engine or a driver's head in a race car. It allows for hours of fun for young children and some adults, as well.
My oldest son, now 10, has had a few of these in his possession, and once in a while when I'd be scouring in his toy collection for something else, perhaps a missing Legos piece, I'd find a small Transformer. I'd sit there -- transfixed! -- as I'd make discoveries within this toy while manipulating it.
When I read today about the upcoming movie, I couldn't help but be reminded of a post I read late last summer on Seraphic Secret. Robert Avrech had talked about hosting Shabbat guests who were there for a Shabbaton, and how they'd been attracted to Robert's Emmy Award, as well as to the collection of Transformers that Ariel's room housed. He and Karen were somehow torn, feeling the need to perhaps let one of the Shabbaton's participants take one of the toys away with him, yet wanting to maintain their precious memories of their son and the collection he was so fond of, therefore not parting with them.
When I was in L.A. last month, I asked Robert if I could see Ariel's room; he gladly showed it to me and I saw all the seforim and all the young boy's and young adult's personal interests displayed, including the beloved Transformers.
Robert and Karen's sweet, young nephew, Yoni, visiting from Israel, had played with Ariel's Transformers throughout Shabbos. He, too, had been transfixed by them and the different personas they took on.
When Shabbos was over, Havdalah was done and extended family members and I were dispersing for the night, I saw Karen ask Yoni if he'd like to have one of the Transformers, telling the boy this particular Transformer's name and letting him know that his cousin Ariel had enjoyed the toy immensely. Robert stood nearby and reiterated that Ariel had a wonderful time playing with these toys.
Yoni's face lit up with this gift, this gift that would travel with the boy from California, to New York and back to Efrat, Israel. This gift that truly had been a gift from the heart.
Transformers... They have a way of transforming people, as well.
It came to my attention recently that Steven Spielberg, who seems to have his hand in every pie in Hollywood, will be the executive producer of an upcoming movie based on the Transformers animated TV show, and Transformers toys.
These are exactly as named: robots who, when you twist and turn their body parts, become other objects -- eg. hiding behind the belly of a large robot might be a fire engine or a driver's head in a race car. It allows for hours of fun for young children and some adults, as well.
My oldest son, now 10, has had a few of these in his possession, and once in a while when I'd be scouring in his toy collection for something else, perhaps a missing Legos piece, I'd find a small Transformer. I'd sit there -- transfixed! -- as I'd make discoveries within this toy while manipulating it.
When I read today about the upcoming movie, I couldn't help but be reminded of a post I read late last summer on Seraphic Secret. Robert Avrech had talked about hosting Shabbat guests who were there for a Shabbaton, and how they'd been attracted to Robert's Emmy Award, as well as to the collection of Transformers that Ariel's room housed. He and Karen were somehow torn, feeling the need to perhaps let one of the Shabbaton's participants take one of the toys away with him, yet wanting to maintain their precious memories of their son and the collection he was so fond of, therefore not parting with them.
When I was in L.A. last month, I asked Robert if I could see Ariel's room; he gladly showed it to me and I saw all the seforim and all the young boy's and young adult's personal interests displayed, including the beloved Transformers.
Robert and Karen's sweet, young nephew, Yoni, visiting from Israel, had played with Ariel's Transformers throughout Shabbos. He, too, had been transfixed by them and the different personas they took on.
When Shabbos was over, Havdalah was done and extended family members and I were dispersing for the night, I saw Karen ask Yoni if he'd like to have one of the Transformers, telling the boy this particular Transformer's name and letting him know that his cousin Ariel had enjoyed the toy immensely. Robert stood nearby and reiterated that Ariel had a wonderful time playing with these toys.
Yoni's face lit up with this gift, this gift that would travel with the boy from California, to New York and back to Efrat, Israel. This gift that truly had been a gift from the heart.
Transformers... They have a way of transforming people, as well.
I Need Some Color in My (Blogging) Life
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Okay, you masters of your own domains, could you please advise me on how to do something with Blogger.
When I first started my blog back in December, I had the color feature on my basic page template, alongside bf, itals, spell check, etc. I can't recall what button I hit that I shouldn't have, but I did hit something, and the color disappeared from my life.
I'd loved the color, which I could use for emphasis or creative tactics in my posts. And I've missed it ever since it went missing in action many months ago.
It's time to get that tool back. So could you please tell me how/where to place it back on my open blogger page masthead, so that I can begin to feature color in my posts?
Without that color button, I'm feeling blue, and a bit green with envy when I see other bloggers featuring color in their posts.
Help me get Technicolor (TM) back into my (blogging) life!
Okay, you masters of your own domains, could you please advise me on how to do something with Blogger.
When I first started my blog back in December, I had the color feature on my basic page template, alongside bf, itals, spell check, etc. I can't recall what button I hit that I shouldn't have, but I did hit something, and the color disappeared from my life.
I'd loved the color, which I could use for emphasis or creative tactics in my posts. And I've missed it ever since it went missing in action many months ago.
It's time to get that tool back. So could you please tell me how/where to place it back on my open blogger page masthead, so that I can begin to feature color in my posts?
Without that color button, I'm feeling blue, and a bit green with envy when I see other bloggers featuring color in their posts.
Help me get Technicolor (TM) back into my (blogging) life!
Shabbos: The Long & Short of It
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(cross-posted on THE JEWISH CONNECTION)
I like my Shabbos "shlufs" -- my two to three-hour afternoon naps...the time to catch up on all the sleep that I lost out on when I was at the computer late at night during the week.
Problem is: sometimes I get to nap, other times I don't.
Sometimes it's too busy in our household, with the children having guests, with my own children who have no guests needing to be entertained, with the parents having guests, with our family invited out, with our Shabbos afternoon outings to the nearby park, where the children play baseball or on the playground equipment and the adults catch up on the news of the week.
In our community, which is a bit widespread, we live at the top end, thus making it somewhat of a hike from shul to visit the TorontoPearl family. I grew up with a 25 minute walk to shul, so it's not a big stretch for me, but sometimes my two youngest children feel that they're on a walkathon...without anyone having sponsored them! It's a pleasure for them...and me...when they tote along friends from shul for lunch and for a Shabbos play date. The route home doesn't seem as long in the company of good and cherished friends.
When we adults invite friends for Shabbos lunch, we have to think long and hard over whom to invite: Will they make the walk? Will they want to stay till Shabbos is out, if they find it too long a walk back home?
I'm certainly not always in the entertaining mood (remember, I like those long Shabbos afternoon naps) but when we do host, it's such a nice thing. My husband and I work side by side in the kitchen to prepare the talked-about menu, with me often his sous-chef and he taking the lead. But this joint effort results in a lovely-set table, a delicious menu, and the feeling that "we're in this together!"
Sometimes he gets the compliments directed to him for things I made, sometimes I get the compliments for things made by him. We share the compliments, the spotlight and the company.
Today's company did make the walk even though the adults are plagued by knee joint problems and the like. These were people whom I don't see all that often, but who, when we do host them or if we end up at their Shabbos table, have a wonderful, time together. We are equally blessed that two of our sons are good friends.
Kiddush/Shabbos lunch became an afternoon stay. To hell with my nap, I thought, I'm really enjoying this conversation and the presence of these people. The afternoon stay became Seudat Shlishit, followed by the end of Shabbos. I even jokingly invited the couple and their kids to stay over for breakfast...as they were on such a roll.
But of course, I was being cheeky, as Sunday (it's now already Sunday as I type this) is a fast day.
Good food, friendly and down-to-earth families, hearty laughs, good conversation, lovely zmirot, and children running in and out of the room...help make "this day of rest" what it is: a pleasure.
(cross-posted on THE JEWISH CONNECTION)
I like my Shabbos "shlufs" -- my two to three-hour afternoon naps...the time to catch up on all the sleep that I lost out on when I was at the computer late at night during the week.
Problem is: sometimes I get to nap, other times I don't.
Sometimes it's too busy in our household, with the children having guests, with my own children who have no guests needing to be entertained, with the parents having guests, with our family invited out, with our Shabbos afternoon outings to the nearby park, where the children play baseball or on the playground equipment and the adults catch up on the news of the week.
In our community, which is a bit widespread, we live at the top end, thus making it somewhat of a hike from shul to visit the TorontoPearl family. I grew up with a 25 minute walk to shul, so it's not a big stretch for me, but sometimes my two youngest children feel that they're on a walkathon...without anyone having sponsored them! It's a pleasure for them...and me...when they tote along friends from shul for lunch and for a Shabbos play date. The route home doesn't seem as long in the company of good and cherished friends.
When we adults invite friends for Shabbos lunch, we have to think long and hard over whom to invite: Will they make the walk? Will they want to stay till Shabbos is out, if they find it too long a walk back home?
I'm certainly not always in the entertaining mood (remember, I like those long Shabbos afternoon naps) but when we do host, it's such a nice thing. My husband and I work side by side in the kitchen to prepare the talked-about menu, with me often his sous-chef and he taking the lead. But this joint effort results in a lovely-set table, a delicious menu, and the feeling that "we're in this together!"
Sometimes he gets the compliments directed to him for things I made, sometimes I get the compliments for things made by him. We share the compliments, the spotlight and the company.
Today's company did make the walk even though the adults are plagued by knee joint problems and the like. These were people whom I don't see all that often, but who, when we do host them or if we end up at their Shabbos table, have a wonderful, time together. We are equally blessed that two of our sons are good friends.
Kiddush/Shabbos lunch became an afternoon stay. To hell with my nap, I thought, I'm really enjoying this conversation and the presence of these people. The afternoon stay became Seudat Shlishit, followed by the end of Shabbos. I even jokingly invited the couple and their kids to stay over for breakfast...as they were on such a roll.
But of course, I was being cheeky, as Sunday (it's now already Sunday as I type this) is a fast day.
Good food, friendly and down-to-earth families, hearty laughs, good conversation, lovely zmirot, and children running in and out of the room...help make "this day of rest" what it is: a pleasure.
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