The Try-It Diet

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Okay, I'll admit it. I've been feeling "blahg" for the past week. Was it really because I felt I didn't have anything to blog about, or do the reasons go deeper? They go deeper of course. Truth is I've been crankier than usual. ("Pearl, cranky? I'd have never thought that of her.")
And why have I been crankier? Because I am on a D-I-E-T.

I have NEVER been on a diet. When girlfriends were starting to count calories when they were thirteen and fourteen years old, I thought they were idiots. I was tall and slim and had no need for that nonsense.

When my brother told me when I was about fifteen or sixteen that my "rear view" on the piano bench was getting wider, I scoffed at him. What the heck did he know? I was tall and slim.

When anorexia and bulemia were in fashion, I didn't even contemplate working my way into those categories because there was no need for that. I was tall and slim.

I'm still tall; I'm not so slim. Yes, I've been asked many a time if I'm expecting, and I just laugh and say either "No, it's just 'baby fat'!" or I say, "No, but I've been expecting you would ask that!"

When I moved homes a couple of years ago, I stored some of my smaller clothing at my parents' home; I did not want to toss out the clothes or donate them because I had hopes of being able to fit into them once more...at some point in time. Yes, yes, I know styles go out of fashion, but for the most part I wear clothing that is classic, and thus timeless.

I joined a health club last fall, and went about 8 times over the course of the year. That was money down the toilet.

We bought a rowing machine earlier this year -- it is such a beautiful piece of equipment, and matches my bedroom furniture -- but I had never even sat on it.

But the time has come to join the masses and diet. My husband is my coach, my mentor, my cook, my conscience, my sounding board. He's been on the receiving end of my continual complaints this past week -- moaning about feeling hungry, groaning about the repetitive foods I'm eating, bitching about how tired I feel... you get my drift.

It's not just a watch-what-you-eat-leave-out-the-sugar-and-salt kind of diet; it's rather regimented and food specific. But being on this "meal plan" since Monday has made me aware of how much I really like breads, and sweets, and pasta, and fruit juices -- and how much I miss them...thus the general crankiness.

But I know I've lost several pounds already in these few days. On day #1 of the diet I was at my parents with my children for lunch; I hadn't told my folks that I was on a diet, so they prepared a wonderful milchig spread -- bagels, lox, various salads, pasta, cream cheese. I couldn't touch any of it -- could just have a touch of pretty plain salad and a few green beans. My father was so pleased when I confessed that it was the first day of a diet, that he said "Congratulations!" I told him, "Dad, don't congratulate me now, congratulate me at the end when I'm skinny again."

I've turned down social invitations over this past week and next that involve a meal. I learned (especially from being at my parents' home this week) that it's not so nice if a host prepares a lovely spread and you can't partake of any of it. After a couple of weeks, I'll be more in tune with my diet and will perhaps venture into "eating out."

Until then, I'll stick to my water, to my salads, my tuna/salmon/grilled chicken/grilled veggies, raw veggies and nuts, and hopefully when I next talk to you about my diet, it'll be because I've succeeded at it!

And yes, our ergonomic (water) rowing machine will be getting to know me better too, and vice versa, in the coming days...

All Roads Lead Back to You...Blog!

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Some newly coined (or so I'd hope) blog lingo for today:

blog gig (n.) -- chance to guest host a blog. As in: Jack announced, "I've got a blog gig over at the Shmatta Queen's place. Catch you there."

blogcast (v.) -- when one's blog is categorized by general theme. As in: For the record, The Jewish Connection has been blogcast as "Jewish identity."

blogtrotter (n.) -- a reader who skips from blog to blog. As in: That blogtrotter Pearl cruises down her blogroll continuously and peeks in at everyone's words and comments.

blahg (adj.) -- when you just don't feel in the mood for blogging. As in: Lately, I've been feeling very blahg and haven't had much to say online.

blogclog (n.) -- when Blogger is down "due to technical difficulties". As in: "Damn, so much to say today, but there's a blogclog online. Better write my thoughts down somewhere else so I don't lose them later."

blogowitz (n.) -- refers to any Jewish blogger whose keen sense of humor shines through in his words. As in: It is has been said many times by many people that Neil Kramer of Citizen of the Month is a known blogowitz.

echopost (n., v.) -- a post/posting about something that someone else has already covered in their blog. As in: Admit it, many of you search news items to blog about, but in fact they become echoposts of other popular blogs. How many times can one read about Cindy Sheehan?!

blogorism (n.) -- something you read on someone else's post and "take away" with you. As in: "Honey, A Simple Jew said this today in his blog. [tell what ''this'' is] I'll have to remember that blogorism."

blogoriety (n.) -- self-explanatory, isn't it?

blogophilliac (n.) -- another self-explanatory term. Also serves as a synonym for "Pearl".

Brain Teaser

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If I have nothing to blog about -- I don't want to be like some other bloggers and just continually link to articles ; and I don't want to write about my children or post some of my creative writing or give a play-by-play of my daily life -- does that mean I've become boring...even to myself?

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm...."

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Little things in life can keep me guessing, can keep me wondering, can basically just stun me into silence. Coinicidences are often grand and memorable.

Take yesterday, for instance. My five-year-old had been invited to a birthday party. He was so excited because it was his first school party he'd been invited to, as this is his first year attending school. My son was doing a countdown for about three weeks: "...it'll be Shabbat, and then the next day is Sunday and I have swimming lessons and then after swimming it's DA's party." At this point he'd clap his hands and smile in glee.

So yesterday came and my son was elated and anxious. "When will you take me to DA's party, Eema?" "Are we going soon, Eema?"

Well, we got to the party and it was a pleasure for me to see the birthday boy and his family, especially his grandparents. You see, this little boy's maternal grandmother used to babysit me when I myself was five years old, my son's age. Her first grandchild is friends with my son!

Okay, at the moment I'm tired, so those grand and memorable coincidences I spoke of above...? At the moment there are no others that are memorable. My brain is mush. My fingers are tired. And I'm signing off...

The Dawn of a New Pearl

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Today I experienced a "first"--probably a first, or second or third that would be meaningless to the majority of you readers, but to me it had great meaning. It touched me, plucked a personal heart string, and carved itself into my memory.

Today I was asked for my autograph.

Sure enough, I've signed my autograph many a time...in days gone by. In the autograph books of classmates and later in the high school yearbooks.

And of course, I "autograph" each and every birthday card or condolence card or simcha card or general personal note that I write.

But today, at the launch of the Canadian Jewish annual literary journal, someone approached me with a copy of last year's -- not even this year's -- journal and asked if I wouldn't mind autographing it.

Over the years, I've practiced my signature -- first name, maiden name and married name. As a published writer, I try to use all three, and want to transfer it onto someone else's page. Today, I could do just that!

And I didn't sign a copy for just a simple person who came out to the book launch; this woman, to whom I was briefly introduced as a "poetess" by a common acquaintance, is a well-established poet herself who has a city-wide poetry group that does events annually throughout the city. When she went on to invite me to join a session in my area, I had to decline and say, "I'm just a fringe poet...a dabbler...I don't really qualify." She looked puzzled because she knew that my poetry had appeared in two previous editions, and now the current issue, so I MUST qualify as a poet. But the truth is that I don't work very hard at this craft; it works very hard through me. The inspirations rear their heads, wait for me to catch on and then disappear as quickly as they appear. I'm left on my own to work through and mold these inspirations into my free-form poems. Sometimes they work for me, other times not.

Poetry is a very personal thing, much more so than blogging or writing fiction. And so, today, when I looked at my own issue of the journal and saw that my poem, carved from my heart, had been edited/distorted, I was disappointed. Maybe a line or two were stronger, but cuts had been made, messages that I'd wanted to relay.

And so, when the editor called my name (much to my surprise) to do a reading of my poem, I pulled out from my purse a copy of the poem...a copy of the poem as I'd sent it to the journal. It was my personal retort. Yes, you can have my poetry, but I will read it the way it was meant to be read. And I did. And people came up to me afterward and told me how much more they'd enjoyed the original version. And this woman came up to me afterward and asked me for my autograph. And another woman, the editor's wife, came up with a personalized card she'd autographed, a card that had her own pen-and-ink artwork displayed on it, a card whose drawing actually reflected the message of "Soul Light."

And this sometimes-poet found inspirations for future poems throughout the rest of the day.

Sumos At Large

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"Miracles do happen!" aka "Danny, this post's for you." (sometimes we just have to help those miracles along...and RECREATE them!)

The other night, child #2 and child #3 came home very excited and talking from the minute they walked in the door. They were talking at me, not to me, and thus I needed a translator to relay their message. Translator: my husband.

They'd gone to take a sample martial arts class...or so I thought. I figured they would "try their hand" at judo, karate, ju jitsu, tae kwon do, etc. What they were most excited about was sumo. Near the end of the class they paired up with other children approximately their age and height and had to knock them down...or do whatever it is that sumo wrestlers do. The children rattled on about how they got two points and four points each in their battles, and happily told me that they were invited to attend -- not quite sure as participants or as oglers -- a sumo tournament in a couple of weeks.

When they said "sumo," I immediately pictured gargantuan, primarily Asian, men who slick their hair back, wear their longish hair tied in a ponytail atop their head, and who wear their "sumo thongs". This did not describe my young children!

So I thought I'd better do research and checked out what sumo is all about.

The basic rules of sumo are simple: The wrestler who either first touches the floor with something else than his sole or leaves the ring before his opponent, loses. The fights themselves usually last only a few seconds and in rare cases up to one minute or more.

Most elite wrestlers are highly trained athletes and between about 20 to 35 years old. Besides working out, the wrestlers are eating large amounts of food and go to bed right after eating in order to gain mass. The wrestlers are living in special sumo stables where the rules are very strict, especially for beginners.

Okay, so my kids are interested in sumo. I guess that means that my daughter, who will be displaying her delicate feminine feet, will have to have a pedicure on a regular basis. And I don't mind if they're interested in eating large amounts of food, and it'll be good if they develop going to bed at a reasonable hour. But the sumo stables? I'm not too sure about that. Will our outdoor playhouse work equally well?

And then there's the hair thing. Okay, so daughter loves long hair and doesn't mind wearing it atop her head in a ponytail. But son? Guess we'll have to grow his hair long again, and he'll need to use lots of Dippety-Doo gel to grease it and then will have to borrow some hair scrunchies from big sister for that ponytail. I guess that when he retires from sumo, we can have a formal "upsherin" again -- okay, so he'll be 25 or 26. That's just a few years' difference from being age 3!

And I guess I have to go into our storage bins and dig out those cloth diapers from days gone by. Blue for son. Pink for daughter. (Who said sumo wrestlers can't be fashionable?)

I guess what I really fear now is that these children will apply what they learn. I imagine this scenario: child does not want to sleep/do homework/take a shower/finish chores; child decides a "face-off" is in order, gets into the sumo stance and confronts me... Is there any chance that this mother might still win. If so, can I be titled "SuMummy"?

Sumo No More

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Just wanted to say that I had an amusing, cute post I wrote over half of my lunch hour at work, I hit publish some time ago. Well, something happened, the post was lost, and I couldn't recover it.

I was so annoyed and disgusted (once again!) with Blogger, but at the same time somewhat ambivalent. When this happens I always wonder if it's some sign from G-d, or perhaps the silent voice of some close friends and family members reminding me, "Pearl. You talk too much. Too much information. Some things are meant to be private."

I will not try to recreate my post, my creativity that was out full-force a short hour ago. I will just rely on you to use your imagination and picture young sumo wrestlers...who are my children!

If by chance the post mysteriously reappears, I will say, "Miracles do happen!"

When I Grow Up

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I guess that this post is a tie-in to the previous one, but I was just reminiscing [in my "old age"] and remembering the things I wanted to be, the things I thought I should be, when I grow up.

Kids always want to be something they're not: when they're weak, they want to be strong; when they're plain-looking, they want to be beautiful or handsome; when they're short, they want to be tall; when they're dumb, they want to be smart.

Some of these wannabes can be helped: with weights and exercise, with makeup, with platform shoes, with studying.

When I was young, I wanted to be like everyone else: cute, popular, the center of attention. But as I got older, I realized I didn't want to be like everyone else; I wanted to be me. I could be all those things in my own way, following my own style, not being like everybody else, but being comfortable with the Pearl that I was and then developed into.

When I was young, I thought I should be a veterinarian...because I loved animals.

When I was young, I thought I should be a librarian...because I loved books.

When I was young, I thought I should be a writer...because I loved to write stories and poetry.

When I was young, I thought I should be a teacher...because I loved to guide and help people learn new things.

When I was young, I thought I should be like everyone else...because, after all, doesn't every kid want to be like everyone else?

Well, I'm an animal-loving, copy-editing (of fiction), creative-writing person who still likes to guide and help people learn new things.

And guess what else I am...

I'm lucky. I'M ME!!

Young - Old...It Really Doesn't Matter

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I'm 44 years old -- I mean young!

Like I've said many a time in my blog, age is just a number. I thank G-d that my life has been a good one up till now and I haven't had any negative life-altering events that have aged me physically or spiritually or mentally.

Okay, so I wish I had some more energy, some secret resource of "I'm rarin' to go, what are we waiting for?" physical energy to share with my kids who are still rather young...and deserve a mom who will run when they run, do sports when they do sports, etc.

My spirit is there, though. My young mentality is there. Although I'm 44, I continue to look out at the world through the eyes of a young teenager. I'm in awe of many things still, my eyes are big as they take in the things I see around me. I have lots yet to experience, as "late bloomer" is my middle name. And so, I think that I'm in the "spring" of what has already been formally deemed my "middle age" several years ago.

When I was young, I often related much better to older people. Perhaps it was because there was no "peer pressure" involved in such circles -- sitting with my mother and her friends in shul instead of with people my age, loving my several years' worth of volunteering stints with seniors in nursing homes for years, volunteering with an archival committee where I was the youngest by a good ten to fifteen years, etc.

When I was young, I also thought in older, more mature ways. I felt that my personal philosphies of life mirrored those of my parents -- was that a result of their wartime experiences, I wonder? I often said things that my peers wouldn't even think of, and when I hit a certain age, when it came to blowing out the candles on a birthday cake and making a wish, I ALWAYS wished for good health...for me and my parents. What young healthy person makes such a heavy-duty wish?

At times, as a young or older teen, I'd just suddenly let out a heavy sigh, as if the weight of the world was on my shoulders. People tended to comment, "What was that for?" "You sound like an old woman."

But I've learned throughout my life that it doesn't hurt to be young and have and display some "older" ideas, and it doesn't hurt to be older and have and display some "younger" ideas. One's spirit is nurtured throughout one's life, and at the end, the young-old balances itself out!

So with the sigh of an old woman, and the childish giggles of a girl, I'm signing off...

"Hello? Is This the Person To Whom I'm Speaking?"

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Sometimes "progress" is actually really backwards. So many children these days do not understand the simple days of yesteryear: rotary telephones, AM radio, b & w television, NO REMOTE CONTROLS, getting up to answer the telephone (not having a machine picking up the call) REGARDLESS of who was on the other end. The list of course goes on and on.

Yesterday, en route home from work I made a stop that set me behind schedule. So I called home to let the family know when I was nearing our neighborhood.

My daughter answered in her eight-year-old sultry voice. "Hello."

"Hi." (I sounded more or less like myself, no need for a sultry voice here)

"Hi."

"What are you doing?"

"Homework."

"Who's there with you? Where's your father?" (at this point, I disguised my voice somewhat)

"He's here, helping us do homework."

"He is? So... where's your mother? Let me talk to your mother please!" (further disguising my voice to more of a bass tone, trying to throw my daughter off and let her think it's a man on the line)

Pause. Laugh. "Hi Mummy!"

"What? (trying to sound gruff) Let me talk to your mother!"

"Hi Mummy. I know it's you," she says, laughing.

(back in my regular voice) "Did you recognize that it was ME putting on a fake voice?"

"No...I didn't have to. I saw the phone number!"

Ha, so the joke was on me. Call display will get you (almost) every time!

"Andy Hardy" Comments on "Dorothy"

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Please click on the linking title.

Danny Miller, whose writing I discovered around the same time that I discovered Neil Kramer's Citizen of the Month blog, is brilliant. He is eloquent, he is bright, he is well-immersed in cultural and entertainment trivia. He'd probably be a rather wonderful guest to have at a dinner party or at a casual gathering with friends, with his tales of department stores, old theaters, old houses, public figures and rubbing shoulders with movie industry types.

Picture a dog who shows surprise. What does the dog do? He sits, looks and holds his head askew, as if asking, "What? What was that you said/you did? What exactly was that all about?"

Picture Pearl. Picture Pearl reading Danny Miller's blog. Picture Pearl, her head askew. Picture Pearl smiling. Picture Pearl typing furiously to let others know about Danny Miller talking about THE WIZARD OF OZ.

Picture yourself hurrying to his blog. Picture yourself reading his latest post. Picture yourself smiling. Picture yourself singing:

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW
(Dorothy)
When all the world is a hopeless jumble
And the raindrops tumble all around
Heaven opens a magic lane
When all the clouds darken up the skyway
There's a rainbow highway to be found
Leading from your window pane
To a place behind the sun
Just a step beyond the rain...

Somewhere over the rainbow way up high
There's a land that I've heard of once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true
Some day I'll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me

Somewhere over the rainbow blue birds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why then, oh why can't I?
If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow
Why oh why can't I?

Soul Light

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Soul Light


I place the tin candle holder on the tray,
light a match
and hold it steadily at the candle’s wick –
watching as the flame slowly comes to life,
rising higher and higher.

This candle, this soul light,
will burn for at least twenty-four hours.

A small window of opportunity
To bring you back to life.
To recreate for others all that you were.
To share with them all that you represented.
To give your neshama a spark once more.

I say a silent prayer and remember.

A Writer's Anxiety Dream...Comes True

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Last month, I posted about an odd anxiety dream I had. This evening I found out that the dream more-or-less has come true.

The launch for the annual Canadian Jewish literary journal, Parchment, is this coming Sunday morning. A fellow poet had told me that she'd already heard before Rosh Hashana from the editor that she was to read some of her accepted poetry at the launch. But she hadn't been told which poems to read. In other words, the literary project had grown quite scattered this year...

As I hadn't heard anything about whether or not my poetry was accepted, and it was so late in the game, I made the assumption that it's not. Especially too, since I hadn't been contacted about providing an updated bio. But I was sort of planning to go to the launch anyhow to hear those writers/playwrights/poets whose works HAD BEEN ACCEPTED. But could a rejected poet like myself feel comfortable amidst published ones? So it was truly going to be just a spur of the moment decision as to whether or not I'd go on Sunday.

Tonight, out of curiosity, I went on to the journal's web site. It had gotten updated since the last time I checked, and now referred to the 2005-2006 new edition...complete with an index. And MY name was in the table of contents and bio listings. I was curious to see what was written, as I hadn't been informed that a poem of mine would appear in the journal, and as I'd never been asked to submit a bio this year. The bio said that it was my third appearance in this journal, and then the rest of the blurb was the same I'd submitted last year. Okay, so they made something up. Not exactly what I'd have said AGAIN, but it's still something, I guess.

The problem is that (at least online, but probably in the actual book too) the index lists my current married name (I think I must've submitted the poem under it), but the bio (already pseudo-set from last year) lists my maiden name and married name, which is what I prefer for my published writing.

So...had I not by fluke looked at the web site earlier, and just gone this coming Sunday to the book launch, the complete dream would have come true: going to the venue, being handed a book and being told that I do have stuff published in it, seeing that they got my name wrong...or at least partially wrong.

In spite of these "kvetches" of mine, I'm once again honored to have had a poem accepted in this prestigious publication. I had submitted two, but this accepted one has never been published, while the other one already appeared in the Canadian Jewish News and in The Book of Ariel, Robert Avrech's two-year-long project memorializing his son, Ariel Chaim Avrech.

My published poem is entitled Soul Light and is about the ner neshama/memorial candle.

A True Story

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Unlike today's vista of decrepit buildings, dilapidated housing and rusting junked cars, the South Bronx in 1950 was the home of a large and thriving community, one that was predominantly Jewish. Today a mere remnant of this once-vibrant community survives, but in the 1950's the Bronx offered synagogues, mikvahs, kosher bakeries, and kosher butchers -- all the comforts one would expect from a traditional Jewish community.

The baby boom of the post-war years happily resulted in many new young parents. As a matter of course, the South Bronx had its own baby equipment store. Sickser's was located on the corner of Westchester and Fox, and specialized in "everything for the baby," as its slogan ran. The inventory began with cribs, baby carriages, playpens, high chairs, changing tables, and toys.
Mr. Sickser, assisted by his son-in-law Lou Kirshner, ran a profitable business out of the needs of the rapidly-expanding child population. The language of the store was primarily Yiddish, but Sickser's was a place where not only Jewish families but also many non-Jewish ones could acquire the necessary paraphernalia for their newly-arrived bundles of joy.

Business was particularly busy one spring day, so much so that Mr. Sickser and his son-in-law could not handle the unexpected throng of customers. Desperate for help, Mr. Sickser ran out of the store and stopped the first youth he spotted on the street.

"Young man," he panted, "how would you like to make a little extra money? I need some help in the store. You want to work a little?"

The tall, lanky African-American boy flashed a toothy smile back. "Yes, sir, I'd like some work."

"Well then, let's get started." The boy followed his new employer into the store.

Mr. Sickser was immediately impressed with the boy's good manners and demeanor. As the days went by and he came again and again to lend his help, Mr. Sickser became increasingly impressed with the youth's diligence, punctuality and readiness to learn. Eventually Mr. Sickser made him a regular employee at the store. It was gratifying to find an employee with an almost soldier-like willingness to perform even the most menial of tasks, and to perform them well.

From the age of 13 until his sophomore year in college, the young man put in from 12-15 hours a week, at 50 to 75 cents an hour. Mostly, he performed general labor: assembling merchandise, unloading trucks and preparing items for shipments. He seemed, in his quiet way, to appreciate not only the steady employment but the friendly atmosphere Mr. Sickser's store offered. Mr. Sickser learned in time about their helper's Jamaican origins, and he in turn picked up a good deal of Yiddish. In time young Colin was able to converse fairly well with his employers, and more importantly, with a number of the Jewish customers whose English was not fluent.

At the age of 17, the young man, while still working part-time at Sickser's, began his first semester at City College of New York. He fit in just fine with his, for the most part Jewish, classmates -- hardly surprising, considering that he already knew their ways and their language. But the heavy studying in the engineering and later geology courses he chose proved quite challenging. Colin would later recall that Sickser's offered the one stable point in his life those days.

After signing up for an ROTC program and serving two tours of duty in Vietnam, the young man quickly rose to the top ranks of the U.S. military. In 1989, under President George Bush, Colin Powell was sworn in as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

In 1993, two years after he guided the American victory over Iraq in the Gulf War, Colin Powell visited the Holy Land. Upon meeting Israel's Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir in Jerusalem, he greeted the Israeli with the words Men kent reden Yiddish -- "We can speak Yiddish."

As Shamir, stunned, tried to pull himself together, Colin Powell -- now U.S. Secretary of State -- continued chatting in his second-favorite language. He had never forgotten his early days in the Bronx...

Bad Habits Be Gone!

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Okay, so what are some of your bad habits? Smoking, leaving the toilet seat up, twirling your hair, snapping your gum, leaving dirty dishes in the sink, biting your nails, never letting a person get in a word edgewise...? The list is endless, isn't it? There are some habits you might've kicked since you were younger; you might have acquired new ones along the way to adulthood.

Whatever the habit, I'm pretty sure you've tried to quit, tried to come clean, tried to go cold turkey... But these suckers aren't too easy to distance yourself from.

Take the case of a youngster I know. Said youngster is all-boy, part baby and very endearing. He can hang out with older kids and be "one of them"; he can also interact well with younger children. He's pretty well immersed in society, save for one flaw, one bad habit if you will.

BLANKIE -- aka "Blanka" and "Shmatta Blankie."

Blankie, the culprit in this scenario, is a longtime friend of this child. They go w...a...y... back to... Well, way back. Blankie and said child have been bosom buddies through good times and bad. Of course, Blankie was put through the wringer quite a number of times, but child stood by his side, hanging on for dear life. After all, Blankie has been a true friend all these years.

Although a friend, Blankie has become a bad habit. Too much of a good thing turns out not always to be a good thing -- we all know and recognize that, don't we? Try telling that to a young child!

There's a beautiful children's book called "Something From Nothing" about a blanket that wears out through the years, diminishes in size, changes format. Well, I think Blanka (name changed here to protect identity of Blankie) heard that story one too many times, clutched in the hand of said child. Blanka thought that she, too, could have a story...or a blog...written about her, and tried to change over the years. Not as colorful, washed-out with time, feeling tattered around the edges -- time took its toll on Blanka and soon she became Shmatta Blankie.

Was young child fed up with Shmatta Blankie? Nope, but parents were somewhat disturbed, and tried to use "child psychology" to break the cling-on habit that child displayed.
Didn't work too well...until child came up own personal Piaget-Adler-Freudian theory:

"I'll have Blankie for one night; you take it away for two."

What a theory! What a five-year-old to come up with it! Actually, consciously trying to wean himself off his bad habit!

"One night on, two nights off." Great idea, kid. Now if only we could all adapt it to our own bad habits...

How Smart Is Your Right Foot?

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This is so funny that it will boggle your mind. And you will keep trying at least 50 more times to see if you can outsmart your foot, but you can't.

1. While sitting at your desk, lift your right foot off the floor and make clockwise circles.

2. Now, while doing this, draw the number "6" in the air with your right hand.

Your foot will change direction.

I told you so... And there's nothing you can do about it.

Make sure you pass this on to your friends...they won't be able to believe it either.

If You Can't Beat 'Em...Share 'Em

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And so, I've had to change my philosphy. After blogging for nearly a year and being told "If you blog, they will come," early on when I asked someone who'd been in the "business" for a while, and seeing that isn't quite so, I've opted to change my ways.

Perhaps I have some interesting things to say, but apparently not that many of you agree with me. My readership might have gone up since last December, but the number of comments haven't. If I'm "lucky" I might average a couple a day. If I'm "very lucky" and post something about wanting to perhaps quit the blogging scene, I might see 15 comments that day.

Yes, envy runs through our veins alongside our blood. Isn't it a blogger's dream to see 25 and 50 comments a day...and exclusively from other people, not mixed in with a commentary dialogue of yours!

Well, I know someone who gets those daily averages of 50+ comments, who gets honorable mentions in other blogs, yet in fact deserves none of it. He deserves SO MUCH MORE...such as his own syndicated column.

We thought that Jerry Seinfeld had a wonderful run on his "show about nothing" -- it captivated us and kept us glued in front of our TV sets every Thursday p.m. We lived with the characters, we were eager to watch their weekly interaction.

Well, not too long ago, I found that certain blogger who has inched his way into my heart -- he has moved me to tears, he has had me rock in gales of laughter, he has had me roll my eyes in disbelief and sometimes disgust. His blog is about nothing while at the same time, it's about everything.

Some of you discovered him before I did and I'm sorry for missing the boat the first part of his run. But now that I'm on that boat, I don't want to get off. And I want you all to get on that boat with me. The captain of the boat is Neil Kramer, his on-again-off-again co-captain is named Sophia, and the boat is named "Citizen of the Month".

Pick random posts of Neil's to read. I guarantee that you will be caught off balance by some of his worldviews, by some of the comments that go with his posts, but that you will be most entertained.

I found a good thing -- and I'm sticking with it!

"Last Dance"

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World Jewish Digest out of Chicago features a very beautiful and poignant essay this month. It was written by Rochelle Krich, a bestselling and award-winning author of mysteries and suspense fiction.

I've been corresponding with Rochelle since the spring, and had the good fortune to meet her and spend a couple of hours in her company this past June on my trip to L.A. Not only is she a bestselling author, but she is also a very gracious one -- I explained to her that due to my work in publishing, I have difficulty reading for pleasure and so, have not yet read any of her books. She did not reprimand me because she knows that even though I myself might not be reading her books, I'm spreading the good word to others about them!

Rochelle is a mother, a grandmother and a very spunky and bright gal. She does her research and it shows in her creativity. She is also a very warm and loving person, and it definitely shows in this essay, "Last Dance" -- a very moving tribute to her late father.

I urge you to reach for your copy of the newspaper if you get it; if not, get on the web site and do read her piece. After you do so, if it's still possible, go call your father/mother, or even better, visit with him/her. You will be very glad that you did...

Open for Business

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Now... a sign like this one is what I'd like to see more of.

For the most part, we live in a 9 to 5 world, sometimes 9 to 6; if you're lucky, 9 to 9. Open Saturdays 9 to 6; open Sundays 12 to 5.

My weekday work life fits into the 8:30 to 5 world (by the time I'm home, it's 6:00), my home life (considering kids--feeding, homework, entertaining) fits into the 6:30 a.m. to 9:30 world. My personal life fits into the 9:30 to 1 a.m. world.

Hello...do you see something in this pattern? Where is the time slot that fits with MY life?

I know in the States there are 24 hour Super Wal-Mart stores and supermarkets open for the late-night, early-morning needy folks, but we don't really have that here. The one time I went rather late to an all-night local supermarket, there was one cashier working, or should I say, talking on the telephone, and there was a lengthy lineup. When I go to the store at 11 p.m., I do not want to stand in a lineup. I do not expect to stand in a lineup. If I wanted to stand in a lineup, I would have gone to the supermarket at 5:30, on my way home from work!

We have to wait till the 3rd week in November to have malls stay open late on Saturday nights. Being Shomer Shabbat, I cannot seek out a mall from Friday p.m. through sunset on Saturday p.m. But I don't want to have to wait till the end of November to be able to pop into the mall late on a Saturday for the next 4 Saturdays! (this bonus mall feature ends with Christmas)

How about starting some new societal arrangements? Yes, let's have more supermarkets and stores of all kinds stay open till midnight, or better yet, all night! And while we're at it, let's open up hair salons, public libraries, doctors' offices, government services, etc. until midnight...or even later.

Do your grocery shopping at 9:30 p.m., pop into the library at 10:30 p.m.to pick up a couple good reads, and hit the salon at 11:15 p.m.. I mean, who wants to wake up with "bed head"? Get your hair done, and maybe your nails while you're at it, and if time allows (of course time allows -- this is my fantasy post) , have a 90 minute Swedish massage. Okay, it's now 3 a.m. and you're on a roll. Go to the optical store and try on some funky frames; even better, pop in at the walk-in Lasik (tm) Eye Center and do some minor work on your left eye. Next week, your right eye will have its turn.

Sleep? Who needs sleep? But I do need to take the kids for flu shots, have my annual checkup, get the car tuned up and checked out for winter, return some clothes I bought, have a meeting with a particular teacher and buy some small hostess gifts. Do you think I can manage all that between 11 p.m. and 7:30 a.m., when I have to leave for my day job?!

(People, let's try to make this fantasy post a reality. C'mon now. Run with it. After all, instead of having to take 1/2 a day off work and shlep for 40 minutes of traffic to make an appointment, wouldn't it be nicer to sit in your gynecologist's or cardiologist's waiting room at 4 a.m. and hear: "The doctor will see you now...")

Blogger Notes...No Relation to Monarch Notes

It occurred to me this evening that we bloggers are also commentators, whether in our own posts or in the comments sections of our blog and those of others. We are not unlike the famous commentators of Jewish history: Rashi, Rashbah, Onkeles, etc. These men extracted from the main messages of Torah and Talmud to post their own thoughts on the matter at hand. We do that, as well.

We do it to blog strangers, we do it to blog friends. And if we're lucky, sometimes some other blogger cites our words or gives a link to our message.

Many of us think through our comments before writing them, while others take them lightly and toss them off easily. Like the famous rabbis and Talmudic and rabbinical students of yesteryear who were called upon to respond to Halachic questions, we are sometimes consulted upon to give opinions, rationales and elaborations. In essence, we, like the great thinkers, are providing "responsa".

Perhaps we can take that a step further. Will our responsa, our blogs in essence, be discovered in great warehouses in Cairo, in "genizahs" hundreds of years from now? If so, what great words of wisdom and commentaries will you be remembered for?

Me Time/We Time

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I came up with an idea this a.m. en route to work, and thought it to be a good one.

My late-August - September "free" time was taken up by two freelance projects. When I was offered these copy editing assignments, I was pleased, because it was new clientele I'd be working for and like most anyone thinks: "Maybe this gig will lead to another one..."

In any case, many of September's Sundays were beautiful days; I should have been outdoors with my children, taking them to parks and other venues. But what was I doing? Sitting at the dining room table, papers, Post-Its, reference books and red pencils spread out around me. And the excuses tumbled out one after the other: "Sorry, I can't play with you now. Sorry, it's so nice out but we can't go anywhere. SORRY, SORRY, SORRY." (the lyrics to "Cat's in the Cradle" kept running through my head as I thought of this imbalanced parent-child relationship)

After my deadlines, I said to my husband, "It was so not worth it. Even a thousand dollars for both projects would not have made it worth my while... I should have been with the kids."

So, I decided that when I get my two paychecks for these assignments, for the few hundred dollars that it will be, I will take the money and plan for a weekend or even overnight family getaway at a family-oriented hotel. The "Me" time that I spent last month will become the "We" time that it should have been.

The Way You Do the Things You Do

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I know that Pearlies of Wisdom has several readers who are parents of young'uns--PsychoToddler, A Simple Jew, Doctor Bean, Stacey, Tuesday Wishes, to name a few.

Have any of you ever stopped to really look at your kids as they throw little hissy fits and full-blown temper tantrums? Have you ever stopped to wonder how it would look if we adults emulated our children when we were just a wee angry? I think about it a lot and often demonstrate for my children what they look and sound like.

Luckily, my kids don't throw themselves down on the floor or bang their heads against something when they're angry (thank G-d that's long outgrown), but they do: stare me down with daggers shooting from eyes, yelp in frustration, whine incessantly, bark out noises of disgust, stomp in their shoes or in bare feet (I call that "slap happy"-- their footfall slaps against the hardwood floors), arch their backs as they stand on tiptoe and screech for a moment or two.
Of course, when I stop them and say, "What if I would do what you're doing when I'm angry?" and proceed to demonstrate, it looks comical. But when they do it, they're in the heat of the moment and oblivious to how they look or what they sound like.

There have been times when one of them is ranting about something or other, and I hush them up, saying, "Please be quiet. I can't even hear the voices in my head." They look at me quizzically; yes, my offbeat sense of humor works on them and they lower their tone.

A child is lively; a child represents life. Yes, we all would like to have perfectly, well-behaved children, but sometimes these "sparks" that they emit are what we need as parents to remind us of why we chose to be parents. We wanted to help mold a child's life and leave our marks on the world. Okay, so in their anger, some kids prefer to leave marks on the wall or on the furniture or floors, but it isn't really anything we can't handle...right? [as she arches her back, stands on tiptoe and screeches in frustration]

"If I Could Save Time in a Bottle..."

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"If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I’d like to do
Is to save every day
Till eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I’d save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them..."

AND THEN MAN CREATED DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME...

That's the Way -- Uh-Huh, Uh-Huh -- I Like It

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I was born in 1961, so I never quite know what to call myself. People say about themselves, "I'm a child of the sixties...or seventies." I guess I'm more a child of the seventies and eighties, but give me any kind of music -- the thirties, the forties, for the most part I can skip the fifties (except early Elvis), I'll rock'n'roll with the sixties, I'll boogie with the seventies, and I'll get down on the dance floor with the eighties. (In the nineties, I was listening mostly to children's songs!)

It is such a pleasure to be in the kitchen on Saturday night, cleaning up after Shabbat, the radio playing in the background. On one station I have "golden oldies" of the sixties playing; a small turn of the dial takes me to Disco Saturday Night.

If my kids are around, they get such a kick out of watching me let loose with the dance moves and the vocals. I'll lip sync for their pleasure and exaggerate facial expressions. Or I'll belt out song lyrics while sliding around the kitchen floor.

Perhaps it's sad to say that I know nearly every word of every song played from the disco era...'cause back then, on Saturday nights, I was probably in my bedroom listening to the radio when the songs were current. I'd get down, I'd boogie, and I'd shake my groove thing whenever the lyrics called for me to do so.

These days, though, when I get down, it's hard to get up; when I boogie, it's because I'm running late, and if I shake my groove thing, it's because gravity and leftover baby fat (from giving birth!) are helping.

I don't mind if "It's Raining Men"; I'll be glad to "Do the Hustle"; I know "I Will Survive" -- just give me some music, give me a dance floor and give me a spotlight.

L.A. Revisited -- Again, and Again, and Again...

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The other night, while at the dinner Yom Tov table, I was relaying some story about my trip to California this past June. My oldest child piped up: "If you were there almost 5 months ago, why are you still talking about it?"

His reaction definitely made me think. Yes, I've talked about the trip before, but not excessively, because a few short days upon my return home, we left for a family road trip to Florida. My children had their own memories to make and their own stories to tell.

But had my son been right in his perception of why continue to talk about something if it's long past, then we could take that rationale a step further. We would just have experiences that were self-enclosed, lived for the moment and then close the book on them and shelve them for permanence, not to take the book off the shelf and skim through it from time to time. What kind of life would that be?

My son sees me telling California stories or details I might've forgotten to mention earlier, but does not realize that he himself reminisces, as well. He and his brother and sister continue to remind one another of certain rides at Universal Studios, or the day they watched a young shark being caught off a pier, or the afternoon we spent swimming in the Atlantic Ocean at Cocoa Beach, or the magnificent public fireworks we witnessed on July 4th. These children relish the moments, relish the memories, and their excitement over remembered details is still very evident.

Yes, I will relive my California trip again and again...at least until I make a return trip there and create new memories and have new stories to tell.

Blogger Spell Check Needs Some Lessons in Judaism

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Doesn't Miss Spell Check (c) look like a nice Jewish bubby? She'll cook some chicken soup with lokshen (noodles) or knaidlech (matzah balls) for you and will sit you down at her kitchen table to eat while she goes over your work.

I use spell check in some of my work for work, in my writing of articles, etc. I don't use it for blogging (actually forgetting that it's available for use) normally, but yesterday I used it for my Simchat Torah entry when I noticed a typo once I'd already hit "publish"-- I corrected the error, then reviewed the rest of my work with the spell check service.

It is very clear to me that Blogger needs to be updated and informed re. Jewish references. Here in black is what I typed, followed in red by what was suggested to me as a change. My comments follow in brackets.

Get ready for a few potential laughs or rolling of the eyes.


simchat -- smacked (Simchat means "happy" ; "smack" can make you very happy, thus adding to the joy of Simchat Torah.)

chagim -- chasm (Boy, did the chagim this year, September-October, create a chasm at my workplace between my boss and I.)

shuls -- souls (Shuls/synagogues are filled with countless souls, some more lost than others, but all gathered together as a community in service to G-d).

shteibel -- satiable (The shnapps and herring and egg kichel found in shteibels help ease congregants' most satiable appetites for "Kiddush, kiddush!")

shul -- Saul (I guess that at least one Saul can be found in every shul.)

minyan -- Minoan (A minyan/quorum goes back centuries, but I'm not certain if all the way back to the Minoan age.)

Torahs -- Tories (Torahs and Canadian politics--what a mix!)

hagbah -- highboy (Blogger spell check misses the mark, but gets a point for trying. "High" is the commonality; hold the Torah high.)

daven -- deafen (Is this subliminal suggestion? When members daven/pray in certain congregations, it can be rather deafening, can't it?)

mechitzah -- necktie's (Are these what separate the men from the women in a shul? Blogger spell check couldn't even get the spelling right--how good a spell checker can it be?)

*aliyah -- Allah (What a bizarre suggestion as a word replacement. You know what? You keep your Allah, and we'll keep our aliyah -- to the Torah and to Israel!)

********

Happy Birthday to my lovely, sweet and gentle mother. Bis 120!

Simchat Torah Memories

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Rejoice with the Torah! Such is the proclamation for the holiday that finished this evening...and so mark the end of our chagim until Chanukah.

I've seen Simchat Torah in many forms, in many shuls throughout my years.My earliest memories are of the shteibel we attended till I was about eight years old. Young and old alike in the basement of a house dancing in glee and carrying that glee upstairs and out of doors onto public property...proclaiming to any and limited passing car and foot traffic that the Torah is ours and it's here to stay.

My next memories are of the family shul, also an Orthodox minyan, where I could still join the men downstairs because I was not yet bat mitzvah age. Or else I stood with my mother and the other ladies and young girls in the balcony, looking down below and watching as certain shul members overexaggerated everything, helped by a little -- or a lot of -- liquor in their systems.

There was one year that I was with friends and we were downtown (the Lower East Side area of Toronto, called Kensington Market) at a shul that just happened to be egalitarian. Now that concept was far beyond me and what I was used to. Yes, we danced outside on the shul property with the Torahs, but when someone offered to hand me the Torah to dance with, I declined. And back inside the shul, when someone offered me hagbah, and then an aliyah, I declined again. It was so foreign to me, so far removed from the environment I was accustomed to, so NOT ME.

One of my loveliest memories of the holiday is about 10 years ago -- I was married and our oldest was about 6 months old. He was wearing a beautiful white and blue plush velour sleeper and was dancing in the arms of my husband, back in a shteibel setting of the shul my husband attended when we married and where we continued to daven until we moved northward. That memory of that baby being held is likened to a Torah in its mantel being held -- lovingly, adoringly and carefully -- and displayed for all to see.

Before a move a couple years ago we attended another small Orthodox shul and the last year we were there, one of the women pseudo-begged the rabbi for the men to pass the Torah over. Reluctantly he and the menfolk agreed and this woman held and danced with the Torah, crying like a baby. She said she'd been trying for over 20 years to get to hold a Torah. She truly rejoiced as she held the Torah like it were her baby and embraced it lovingly. Yes, I finally took the Torah where it was offered to me, but it wasn't as if it were a great achievement for me. I was indifferent, but not as against holding it as I'd been almost 20 years earlier. I just remember being v...e...r...y cautious when I held it.

The shul we attended for the past two Simchat Torah celebrations is very lively -- Bnai Akiva teens come from far and wide and add to the spirit with their singing and dancing. As well, in this shul, also Orthodox, the Torah gets passed over the mechitzah to the women. Women come from far because they know this shul gives women the right to hold and dance with the Torah.

It is clear that the glee shown on the faces of these women and teenage girls as they dance with the Torah is the same glee and wondernment that shone on my face when I was a little girl in that first shteibel my family attended. Then, I stood on the outside looking in on the men; these women stand on the inside and get to look out.

There is a great joy in knowing that each of us is part of something bigger, of a community, of a people. And the Torah is our inheritance, our heritage.

May we all merit to share in the joy and dancing of Simchat Torah next year again.


(cross-posted on THE JEWISH CONNECTION)

Roll that Film!

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I discovered a great Web site, Jewish Impact Films, that offers brief, entertaining films to help promote Jewish concepts: Shabbos, Kashrut, Sukkot, etc.

It's fun, it's insightful and it's Jewish!

Jewish Impact Films -- click on it!

I'm a Wuss for OnStar (TM)

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No, hubby and I don't own GM vehicles and so we don't have OnStar in our cars, but next best thing to having OnStar access in your vehicle, is listening to the OnStar radio spots.

I'm such a sucker when I hear these three minute ad pitches: it's like a soap opera for the airwaves -- Will the "victim" get through to the OnStar person? Will OnStar get through to the emergency services? Will OnStar be receptive to compliments following the crisis?

I like hearing the disparate accents of callers and the OnStar reps. I like knowing that usually there will be a happy ending. If not, I think the company has their advertising means a little mixed-up.

Sometimes the desperate voices pierce my heart though...as was the case this a.m. just as I drove into the parking lot at work. In this scenario, a 48-year-old man thought he was having a heart attack, emergency personnel were contacted and by the end of the commercial, they'd arrived on the scene. But by the end of the commercial I was also suddenly weepy. I could actually hear the pain in the caller's voice, the tightness, the clenching in his chest, and I actually hoped that he, too, received a happy ending.

Need directions? Call OnStar. Need help unlocking your vehicle? Call OnStar. Car won't drive? Call OnStar. G-d forbid you need emergency medical treatment? Call OnStar.

Need a laugh? Link to BlondeStar.

Give a Book a Look

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I grew up around books: reading them, buying them, collecting them, proofreading them, copy editing them, editing them, shelving them when I worked in campus libraries, donating them when my personal collections got too vast.

I've always been interested in book cover design, typography, author bios on book covers, back cover blurbs, front cover flashes.

In almost every way, books have been appealing to me, except in one as the years went on: THE PRICE. As I got into my late teens and early twenties and I cruised bookstores, lookin' for a good read, I'd find something that I might've read about in a magazine, which sounded interesting to me, and I bought it. I could still afford to. As time went on, I began to head to the publishers' clearance tables of the bookstores, gathering up several books at a time to buy.

But even those days are long gone. Books are damn expensive to buy. Working in the industry, I know that books are damn expensive to produce, so paying the price shouldn't be such a shocker. But it still continues to be.

I always wonder how people can afford to belong to monthly bookclubs, such as my company offers, and get boxfuls of books, paying shipping and handling and state/provincial taxes. I wonder how people can go into the bookstores and buy two or three hardcovers or even paperbacks each month.

As a parent who wants to pass on a few good reads to a child (and not necessarily from a public library or even a secondhand bookstore), I'm at somewhat of a loss when I see the prices of books. Tonight I bought two thin paperbacks for my two oldest children, as a treat for them. These books that total between them less than 200 pages, ran me up a bill of $14 or so...Canadian. Maybe in the States it would have cost me $11 or so. It's still a lot for a silly and simple read, nothing notable about these books.

I, on the other hand, managed to find a softcover publishers' clearance book for myself; I paid 99 cents for the book, which was about 6 years old and a wonderful piece of fiction by a Canadian author who is fairly well-known in these parts. This book even received a wonderful review in the NY Times in its heyday. I felt lucky to have a 99 cents find for a good piece of fiction, but honestly, it hurt me that the author-publisher relationship had come to this and his book was like confetti that's left on the floor after a great party -- fun while it lasted, but a hassle to get rid of.

I adore children's books. Children's books, hardcover or soft, do not come cheap, but a parent has to make some exceptions to make some worthwhile purchases of such books that can become family keepers.

I'm only blogging about the price of books because when I came home tonight and showed the kids the books I bought for them, my daughter asked me after examining the book jacket, "How come we always have to pay more for books here than in the United States?" I had to give her a quick explanation of the American vs. the Canadian dollar, and then gave her a brief concept of book publishing costs in general.

Maybe she "got it" but I'm still wondering about it all.

A Writer's Anxiety Dream

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I have claimed elsewhere in my blog that I am not a writer: I write. But for the sake of this post, consider me a writer.

The other night I woke up from an anxiety dream; you all have them -- before important dates, before big meetings, when expenses need to be paid, etc. I think the most common one people have is that they miss a test, or get into a test and realize they don't know any of the answers or that they studied something else altogether.

My dream had to do with submissions I'd given recently to a Jewish Canadian annual literary journal for consideration for this year's edition. I haven't yet heard anything from the editor/publisher, but in my dream my two poems were published. This journal is released in conjunction with Toronto's Jewish Book Fair held every November and suddenly I was at the venue of the launch, and handed a book and told right there and then that my poems were in. Only problem: they got my name wrong!

When I know I will have something published, I often like to use my maiden and married name if possible; many people from my past would not know my married name but would remember that I was one of the "literary" ones at school if they saw my published piece with my maiden name as well. So I was supposed to have had all three names show up in the index. One poem had me listed only as Pearl, like I was some rock singer a la Jewel or Madonna/Esther. The other poem listed my names completely wrong. There was also some kind of bracketed disclaimer in the index with my poems, implying they were heavy-duty sad, or something like that. I was so angry because I was told that the literary journal had been edited, but I thought that if they got my names wrong, how could it have been edited. And I wondered that nobody would know it was me who wrote either poem with the altered/shortened names.

It is weird to have this dream: I do not yet know if my poems will be accepted this year, like last year and two years before that...but I'm guessing that with my anxiety dream, it means that I'm hoping they will be!

Sometimes No News Is Good News (or Better News)

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At shul today I was talking to a former classmate. She told me that another former classmate (someone I went to Jewish day school and a few years of public high school with) is DYING. She's apparently in 4th stage of lung cancer. I was rendered speechless. This 44-year-old woman is dying...DYING.

I was never friends-friends with this girl, but we were classmates, acquaintances, and I liked her. I have not seen her probably in 25 years, since high school graduation. She never married, never had children, and continued to live at home with her widowed mother. I think that life did not treat her the way she'd have liked to be treated, although she was cute and perky and spunky and very lively and fun.

I know where this girl/woman lives, and actually for so many years when I passed her home, I always just felt like knocking on the door and saying hi just out of the blue. But I never did. There'd have been a greater chance a few years ago, when my mother-in-law happened to befriend a woman in Florida who was this girl's mother. That would have been the perfect opportunity to check in with the girl after so many years and just catch up.

Last year I ran into a friend of that girl whom she grew up with and I said to please give her warm regards from me, that I think of her from time to time.

Now, I really feel the need to see her, to say hello (and unfortunately also maybe a goodbye), to give her a hug. It is so weird, so very akward for me... I never really had anything doing with this girl aside from just a friendliness and school history, and I want to seek her out before it's really too late to do so. It isn't about appeasing me and my conscience, though. I just have felt a curiousity about her all these years, what she's done with herself, see who she's in touch with still, to reminisce about teachers and classmates...

I have another classmate, Sharon Nechama, whom I went through Jewish day school with, and she left after grade 9 for public high school. We ran into one another 2 or 3 times throughout the years and caught up on our lives for a few minutes, but that stopped: that classmate died at the age of 27 in a car accident. I found out where she is buried and every year or two I make it a point to visit her kever. You don't necessarily have to be friends with a person to feel a strong compassion; there is just some common history, some childhood kind of bonding that serves as a basis for memory.

I will G-d willing find a way to visit this other classmate while she is still among the living. I hope that she is willing and able to still see visitors. I don't know what nechama (comfort) I can give her at this point in her life, but I can tell her how I always liked her, how she helped build up my self-esteem at an impressionable time in my life and I've always remembered her for that goodness.

Miriam/Marilyn, I hope that Hashem is watching over you and blesses you...


***************************

Update -- Sunday afternoon:

I did call my classmate around noon today; I just took the bull by the horns, looked up the number, reached her mother, who gave me my classmate's private number.

I was bothered all day yesterday, and all night yesterday after hearing the news. I couldn't sleep well at all, and between 4 a.m. and 4:30 a.m. I was on the computer looking up the definition and symptoms of 4th stage lung cancer. I needed to know what this woman was going through.

To make a long story short, she was so pleased I called her, I was pleased I called her and got to speak to her. I think we will get in touch from time to time via e-mail, and if she wants visitors, I will make it a point to go and see her. In the meantime, I wish her strength and the ability to have many pain-free days...

Reflections on Yom Kippur

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1. I turned on the computer tonight, to our home page www.Haaretz.com. There was a picture of Hillary Clinton addressing a Beverly Hills, California, congregation. What was she doing in a -- and I'm guessing here -- temple or a synagogue, probably not a shul or shteeble.

What was Hillary doing: headlining for the Israel Bonds drive? Appealing to congregants and annual visitors that if they plunk down their good hard-earned U.S. dollars, they will benefit the country of Israel?

To me, Yom Kippur is not Yom Kippur without a Bonds drive! I had a card sitting on my seat at shul. My eight-year-old daughter had a card on her seat. Thank G-d she didn't get ambitious and fold down the $25,000 tab or even the $1000 tab. Her (non-extistent) allowance won't pay for it!

2. I know that most people find the Kol Nidrei service very moving. After all, we are standing before G-d, repenting for our sins and appealing for another year of good and to be inscribed in the Book of Life. Yes, it is moving, as is every time I beat my chest as I list my sins.

Perhaps surprising to you is my love for the closing service of Yom Kippur -- the last-minute reminder of my requests, before the Gates of Heaven close to us, before the book is sealed. I wait for the blowing of the shofar, and not because it marks the end of my fast -- I fast well, thank G-d, and could probably carry on into the next day, if I only get to have a drink of water. That shofar marking the end of the fast is so powerful for me, such a rich sound that heralds the end of this solemn holy day, yet marks as a reminder that our requests have been heard and dealt with by G-d. When men are standing and davening an entire day for their salvation and the salvation of their congregants, and they still have the energy and mindset to blow this beautiful ram's horn is a wondrous thing...as is the sound that emits from the shofar...that last lingering note.

3. A friend kindly sent me this link. Please take a few moments to watch this film, especially that we've just had our own personal conversations with G-d in shul, in our prayers and in our thoughts.

http://www.theinterviewwithgod.com/popup-frame.html

MEME's the Word (aka The 23rd Meme)

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I found this very interesting meme on someone else's blog, and thought I'd try it. You might like to, as well.

1. Delve into your blog archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.

Unfortunately I discovered that this didn't work for me--my 23rd post is only one sentence, four lines long.

Oh well, better luck next meme....

A Shout-Out to Blogland/Blogville/ the Blogway

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I've said it before, yet I have to say it again: I love blogging. I love writing blogs. I love reading blogs. I love commenting on blogs. I love reading comments on blogs.

It's just over a year now that I learned of blogs and began to read them, one in particular. (my blogging writing career started December 2004) But then I went to that blog's listed links and checked some of those out. A couple of them became regular reads and then I'd link to those bloggers' links...and so on and so forth. (I can't help but always think of the hair product that advertises: "I told two friends, and they told two friends and so on, and so forth.")

I have a very complete life with a beautiful family, a full-time job, a lovely home and various interests. But it is difficult for me to remember life "BB"--before blogging. It's just like some of us can't remember life "BK"--before kids, or life "BM"--before marriage. I can't remember what I was doing a year and one week ago -- it wasn't as if I watched much TV, because I didn't. It wasn't as if I was reading, because when I read all day at my job, it's difficult to read for pleasure. I think, if I recall correctly, I was just a "surfer" but not a "blogger". Very proudly I can now say that I am BOTH!

I won't start renaming blogs that I read, but let me say that my day doesn't feel complete unless I've cruised past your blog several times a day, seeking new posts, new comments, new comments on comments. There are several BRILLIANT writers out there -- BRILLIANT, as in good and articulate and enlightening; and BRILLIANT, as in extremely entertaining, causing me to crack smiles or break out in laughter. There are those BRILLIANT writers out there who with a simple turn of phrase can encapsulate what you are feeling, what you are thinking. There are those BRILLIANT writers out there who paint a canvas with a spectrum of emotions, from the black of anger and despair to the white of purity and holiness and calmness...and everything in between. The sunny yellows, golds and oranges, the drab browns and grays.

I have learned so much from many of you -- about life, about perception, about traditions, about Halacha, about current events, about human frailties and human strengths, about nature, about literature/music/art, about geography and history and social studies. And most importantly, I have also learned more about myself...as I interact on this virtual highway...and carry this knowledge with me.

I hope that the coming (blogging) year equally brings you personal fulfillment and simple joys.

Yom Kippur Celebrity Trivia

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My grade 6 English teacher told me many years later when I met her again that she was a two-day-a-year shul Jew. She claimed she walked in on Rosh Hashanah and walked out on Yom Kippur. Yes, there are countless Jews that come out of the woodwork to partake in these two solemn holidays that mark the tone of the coming year. At least they do that...

Here is an interesting piece I read in the Jewish World Review, a wonderful online source of information.

Far from religiously observant, these celebs had an affinity for Yom Kippur
By Nate Bloom


Yom Kippur, the most solemn Jewish holiday of the year, has produced a number of celebrity anecdotes.

Famous actor KIRK DOUGLAS, who became very religious in the early 1990s, recalls that for most of his life he was not observant, but he always went to synagogue on Yom Kippur. He credits this practice with keeping a spark of faith alive that was kindled in his later years.

In a lighter vein, comedian ROBERT KLEIN says that against his better judgment he once accepted a lucrative club date on Yom Kippur. He got an infected wart. Since then, Klein has not played on Yom Kippur, and he says that one club owner calls him the " SANDY KOUFAX of comedy."

The owner, of course, was referring to the decision of baseball great not to pitch in a 1965 World Series game which fell on the holiday. Other Jewish players who have sat out the day include Hall-of-Famer HANK GREENBERG, current star SHAWN GREEN, and KEN HOLTZMAN, an excellent pitcher who played for several teams in the '60s and '70s.

Holtzman, then playing for Oakland Athletics, declined to pitch in a 1973 play-off game against the Baltimore Orioles that fell on Yom Kippur. His team had no problem with his decision and the A's management said it would find a local Baltimore synagogue where Holtzman could attend services. He was, however, surprised when a limousine appeared in front of his Baltimore hotel on Yom Kippur morning. The driver told Holtzman that he was told to take the pitcher to synagogue.

As reported by the Forward newspaper, "[Holtzman] was escorted to front row center of the synagogue, where he was offered a handshake by a distinguished-looking man standing near his family. 'Ken, let me introduce myself,' the man said. 'I'm JERRY HOFFBERGER, owner of the Orioles.' For Holtzman, the moral of the story was simple: 'Jews stick together.'"

Another story concerns musical great SAMMY DAVIS, JR. , who converted to Reform Judaism in the mid-1950s. In 1959, Davis refused to work on Yom Kippur during the film production of "Porgy and Bess." Director OTTO PREMINGER, who was Jewish, but famous for his insensitivity to other people's feelings, got angry at Davis and called the film's producer, the legendary SAMUEL GOLDWYN.

Goldwyn immediately called Davis and wanted to know if it was true about his refusing to work. Sammy said that as a Jew he could not work on the Day of Atonement. There was silence for a moment, with Goldwyn no doubt noting that stopping production to accommodate Davis would cost $30,000, a large sum then. Finally, Goldwyn, who was a non-practicing Jew, said, "Bless you." Production on the film was stopped for Yom Kippur.

The final anecdote concerns the famous composer/conductor LEONARD BERNSTEIN. Bernstein came from a family of Talmudic scholars, but was only moderately observant in his adult years. However, Bernstein would hire a taxicab for Yom Kippur and go around Manhattan "shul-hopping." He did this because he loved to hear many different cantors' interpretations of the traditional prayers.

Bernstein knew, of course, that riding was forbidden on the holiday, so he would have the cab driver drop him off a block away from each synagogue so that synagogue-goers would not see the famous conductor riding on the holiday.

His son, Alexander, commented that his father would immediately intensely concentrate on the service and the cantor upon entering a synagogue. He was carried-away, his son said, in a world of his own.

********************

May we all, celebrity or not, be inscribed in the Book of Life once again for a happy, healthy and successful year. G'mar chatimah tova.

I Want To Go to the Zoo, Zoo, Zoo

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Did I tell you the other day about a heatwave? Well, I spoke too soon. Yesterday was cool, today was cool...and a beautiful fall day. What to do?

Of course PROJECT SUKKAH should have been #1 on the list. But for different reasons, we had to put it on hold until next weekend. (yes, I know, we're cutting it close...but we tend to live our lives that way.) I suggested a drive to the country to an outlet mall and then to go antiquing in a nearby town...but then my husband and I imagined the mall scene--having to keep a tight rein on the children -- and the antiquing scene -- "Don't touch that. It'll break. It's AN ANTIQUE! No, it's older than I am..."

Then I suggested the zoo. I have two sets of prepaid tickets (through my work's social club that gets tickets to social/sports/entertainment venues at a reduced rate) that are good until next May and next July...and I thought that today is as good a day as any.

The children got excited with the offer, a knapsack was packed with snacks, drinks and sandwiches, cameras were loaded with batteries and off we went.

Thank G-d for reduced ticket rates; otherwise, it would have cost the 5 of us about $71 just to get through the gates, and that was on top of the $8 parking.

What is lovely at the zoo is to see the same animals at different times of the year: I've been in spring, summer, winter and fall. Who'd have thought that you could snap a photo of an African elephant with a backdrop of maple leaves turning into golds and crimsons. Or polar bears lounging on the rocks in the sun, instead of hitting the cool current of the man-made lake?

Of course the orangutans and monkeys are always fun to watch as they primp and groom themselves, scratch their tushies without shame and do their acrobatics on the built-in "jungle gyms" their habitats offer.

Today, one of the prettiest exhibits we saw were free-flying butterflies in a small-scale rainforest setting. I know they're attracted to bright colors, but for some reason they liked my black sweatshirt and settled on my chest a couple of times. The colors of these creatures were magnificent and unlike the simple monarch butterfly most of us are used to seeing. Unfortunately, my children let out shrieks and shrills OF FEAR when butterflies settled on them or came too close.

We walked for miles through the regions and continents that the zoo is divided into. Sometimes I couldn't help wondering as I looked at the animals through glass dividers: "Are we looking in at them? Or are they looking out at us? Who is really the creature on display?"

I'll leave you with this from the famous 1960's film, Dr. Doolittle. We certainly "grew accustomed" to these lyrics:

TALK TO THE ANIMALS

If we could talk to the animals,

just imagine it,

Chattin' to a chimp in chimpanzee,

Imagine talking to a tiger,

chatting to a cheetah,

What a neat achievement it would be!

If we could talk to the animals,

learn their languages,

We could take an animal degree,

We'd study elephant and eagle, buffalo and beagle,

Alligator, guinea pig, and flea!

We would converse in polar bear and python,

And we would curse in fluent kangaroo,

If people ask us "can you speak rhinocerous?"

We'd say "of courserous! Can't you?"

If we conferred with our furry friends, man to animal,

Think of all the things we could discuss

If we could walk with animals, talk with the animals,

Grunt and squeak and squawk with the animals,

And they could talk to us!

MEMEorize These

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Mirty so kindly invited me into the loop to respond to these:

1. Seven Celebrity Crushes

2. Seven Things I Can Do

3. Seven Things I Cannot Do

4. Seven Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex

5. Seven Things I Say Most Often

6. Seven Things I Plan To Do Before I Die

Okay -- here goes...

Seven Celebrity Crushes (call me wacko, but...)

1. Billy Crystal
2. Michael Feinstein (is it okay to have a crush on a gay man?)
3. Jerry Seinfeld
4. John Stossel (I don't even know if he's still a news guy on the air)
5. The guy/fellow lawyer from Ally McBeal who died off early on in the show
6. James Caan
7. Kenny G. (I think we could make beautiful music together)

Seven Things I Can Do

1. Write poetry
2. Sing soprano, sing alto
3. Spell b-a-t-h-y-s-c-a-p-h-e
4. Make up captivating bedtime stories for my children
5. Write letters that express what I can't say in person
6. Be a peacekeeper
7. Make people laugh and smile

Seven Things I Cannot Do

1. Bake cakes too well
2. Fold up a map too well
3. Make decisions too well
4. Geometry
5. Drive a stick shift
6. Sit quietly through a movie without shifting continuously in my seat
7. Relax

Seven Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex

1. A nice smile
2. Wittiness
3. An open, friendly look
4. Natural personality
5. An interest in what I have to say
6. Sincerity
7. Bright, clear eyes

Seven Things I Say Most Often

1. Okay
2. Whatever
3. Anyhow...anyway
4. This blogger that I read said/did/told...
5. Okay, "booba"
6. Ciao
7. Love ya

Seven Things I Plan To Do Before I Die

1. Publish a children's picture book or an anthology of poetry
2. Give some people from my past a piece of my mind...in a nice way, of course
3. Write a personalized letter to each of my children
4. Learn to be more independent, more self-sufficient
5. Put our photos in photo albums (those of you who have followed my blog will understand this comment)
6. Break down some more barriers between people
7. Tell family and friends how much I cherish them and how much they've impacted my life (and at this point I'm starting to cry....so I'll end here)

Eye Is Healed, Eye Is Healed

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Picture being in the South, at some kind of Baptist revival meeting. A faith healer is on hand and he's doing his magic on congregation members.

I, a visitor, walk up to the stage, where this minister puts his hand on my eye, says some mumbo-jumbo, removes my eye patch.

I loudly declare: "EYE IS HEALED, EYE IS HEALED!!!"

(And that, dear folks, is an update on PatchPearl's eye condition. Thought you might want to know. Thanks for your concern.)