Today I Am...a Jewish Dog

Blogroll Me!

Dear Readers,

This is not me. This is a cheap, stand-in canine model that my mom, TorontoPearl, found to put on her blog.

She only thinks it looks a lot like me. But I'm much cuter -- I've even been known to stop traffic.

And although I'm thought to be a shih-poo, my mom came home one night after walking me and exclaimed to the family, "Max is not a shih-poo; he's a THREE-POO." (She only thinks I didn't hear that, but if she knew she had offended me, her guilt complex would be bigger than it already is. Currently it stands as the size of Cleveland.)

Right now I'm a bit too lazy to write and tell you about what it means to become...a Jewish dog. I will come back to share my thoughts with you, but in the meantime ponder this: "It's a pain in the canine tuches."

Love, Max (the canine formerly known as Snoopy)

And One More for Good Luck

Blogroll Me!

Much of my poetry over the years has been marked by a sadness, a melancholy or sometimes even a morbid aspect. Why? Guess 'cause much of the time when I wrote my poems I was feeling sorry for myself for one reason or other...but primarily, my poems have been Holocaust-related, and thus profoundly sad at times.

I was just published in Poetica Magazine, a Jewish poetry journal that originates in Virginia. I was notified on New Year's Day 2005 that one of my submitted poems was accepted for publication; it took until the March 2006 issue to see my name in print. (the journal is published 3 times/year).

The published poem is also somewhat sad; its setting is a Jewish cemetery. The poem is about taking my daughter to see my grandfather's grave...and the poem is true. It is just a slice of life -- a day in the life of... -- and I'm more than happy that a poetry editor in Virginia was interested to read about my slice of life, and thought that others would be interested, too.


And One More for Good Luck


It is visiting day at the Roselawn Cemetery.
I take my daughter in hand and go to his grave.
Is it wrong for me to bring a young child to this field of souls and stones?
Is it wrong for me to want her to meet her great-grandfather for the first time?

We stand before the cool granite, shaded by a maple tree.
She asks me to read the headstone.
I slowly recite the familiar words, enunciating slowly and surely so that
perhaps she will understand the meaning behind them.

I’d been a little girl, even younger than she is now,
when he was brought to his final resting place.
Thirty-eight years have passed, and the engraved message is true:
“In our hearts you live forever.”

I put a stone on the arch of the marker. She places a stone beside mine.
I put another one on the smooth granite. She adds another, and another.




“And one more…for good luck,” she exclaims,
and excitedly lifts up a rock she has found,
stretching on tiptoe to place it alongside the other, smaller stones
lined up like soldiers preparing for battle.

We step away and she looks at her artistry, beaming.

“Can I hug it?” The headstone, she means.

I shrug. “Sure, go ahead.”

And as she does so, I decide it’s a Kodak moment, but I’m sans camera
so I’ll have to etch the scene into my memory.

We walk through the cemetery gates,
leaving behind the field of souls and stones.

Later, when asked, “How was the cemetery?”
she says with much enthusiasm, “GREAT!”
And when asked why she wanted to hug the gravestone,
she replies matter-of-factly, “Because I never got to meet him.”


(Oh, and happy birthday to my brother -- you stand tall at 6'4"; you truly do stand head and shoulders above the rest in many more ways. Happy 46th birthday! Love, from your 5' 7 1/2" younger sister.)

"One Moment in Time"

Blogroll Me!



Whitney Houston had a hit with this song several years back.

If each of you could have "one moment in time" to do anything, meet anyone, say anything, recreate anything...the possibilities are endless...how would you use that "one moment in time"?

I would like to see and meet those grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins whom I never got to meet. The grandmothers I'm named for, the aunts my children are named for, all those relatives that died an untimely death.

I guess I'd like to be at the scene of a paternal and maternal family sitting for a portrait...going back to great-grandparents, at least. I would like the names and family relationship details listed over everyone's head.

Given that "one moment in time" I'd be more content, more settled...for all my life, I've felt as if my life were one big jigsaw puzzle, with many of the pieces missing.

OPRAH, Eat Your Heart Out, Girl!

Blogroll Me!



Nu...Oprah....so you think you got it goin' on, dontcha? (okay...you do)

But I know someone else -- rather, somewhere else -- that's got it goin' on, even more than you do.

Seraphic University.

The faculty there is outstanding, the courses vast and varied. The student body is supreme...so supreme in fact that they often know more than the professors.

Take for example, yesterday. The fine students of this institution for higher learning (it's so high, it's said to be heaven-sent) got together with a reading list. A list that goes above and beyond the scope of your offerings, Oprah.

Who really needs the Oprah Book Club, when you can have the Seraphic University Book Club...!?

Coffee and babke are served at every meeting -- a tasty bonus.

So, Oprah, put down the book you're reading -- okay, if it's Elie Wiesel's Night, finish it first! -- and come visit Seraphic University's reading center. You'll be glad you did.

The Sleepover...Is Simply...Over

Blogroll Me!

When I was younger and would go out to Jewish singles' functions, my friends and family would later ask me, "So, did you have a good time?"

Oftentimes my answer was "I had a time."

My son was invited to a sleepover for a friend's birthday. Several boys were invited to help celebrate the boy turning 11. The "event" was supposed to be from 7 p.m. till 10 a.m.

Only problem: It wasn't a sleepover. It was simply an "over."

When I went to pick up my son at 10 a.m., with my other two children in the car, with my great plans to spend a free day (PD Day) off school (and I off work), he very happily told me, "We didn't sleep."

"WHAT!?? What kind of sleepover is that?" I asked aloud.

"We watched a movie, we played Game Cube, we watched another movie, we played more video games..."

"Didn't the parents tell you guys to go to sleep?"

"The father told us that if we were quiet, we could stay up."

Well, I guess the boys were quiet enough -- they stayed up.

So I just want you all to know: I now am the mother of 2 children and a zombie.

Hodu L'Hashem Ki Tov Ki Leolam Chasdo

Blogroll Me!

A great interpretation of "Hodu L’Hashem Kitov Ki Leolam Chasdo" – we usually translate it as “Praise Hashem because His kindness is forever.” The right way to translate "Hodu L’Hashem Kitov Ki Leolam Chasdo" is “Praise Hashem because He is good, because His Chesed is hidden.”

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

My father was rushed to the hospital on March 1st suffering from a seizure; he then had several between home, the ambulance and the emergency room. The doctors thought he'd suffered a major stroke and if he survived would be severely at a loss. I made peace with what was to be -- unfortunately our family has gone through several serious hospitalizations and medical conditions with my father over the years. His head has had several traumas: He had undergone brain surgery over 24 years ago for a benign tumor, he suffered a mild stroke six years ago, he fell and hit his head and was in intensive care three years ago. How many times can a person fight back, I wondered.

The early days were difficult -- yes, he was moving his limbs and his mouth, but was in a pseudo-catatonic state that was difficult to witness. When he was talking a bit, his memory and thought processes were terribly clouded and confusion reigned. Confusion led to my father getting out of bed two nights in a row, falling and severely hurting his eye area and elbow area.
But as the days passed, the clouds lifted...and my dear father was coming back to us.

He was rushed on a gurney to the hospital on March 1st. On March 17th, my father was able to walk out of that hospital, albeit now with a cane, but able to go home...and not to a home.

Yes, the days ahead won't be easy or the same for my father and mother, but there are days ahead to look forward to. Birthdays and significant anniversaries to celebrate, bar mitzvahs and weddings to look forward to. Perhaps baby steps will carry him to those events, but at least he is around to take them.

Once again, I thank you all from the bottom of my heart, and from the rest of my family, for all the goodness you've shown, for all the prayers you offered up, for the warm messages you sent me or posted. Each of your words, each of your thoughts have meant so much to all of us.

Please forgive me if I missed anyone, but I think I captured all those that wrote to me, or commented on my blog, on Seraphic Secret's or on Cruisin' Mom's in the words below. Some of you are not "blog keepers" but I still tried to work you in.

Thank you one and all.

Good friends are like stars....You don't always see them but you know they are always there.

"Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light."-- Helen Keller

Black Like Me

Blogroll Me!

(another long-overdue promised post)

(taken from The Psychology of Color)
Black is the color of authority and power. It is popular in fashion because it makes people appear thinner. It is also stylish and timeless. Black also implies submission. Priests wear black to signify submission to God. Some fashion experts say a woman wearing black implies submission to men. Black outfits can also be overpowering, or make the wearer seem aloof or evil. Villains, such as Dracula, often wear black.

Okay, I like the "stylish and timeless" reference and the "people appear thinner" statement. So the correlating statement -- "TorontoPearl is stylish, timeless and thin." -- holds true.

I was supposed to travel to L.A. last week to attend a wedding and to meet up with a cacophony of bloggers with whom I correspond. Yes, yes, I know that noun isn't normally used that way, but imagine a gathering of a dozen or so Jewish bloggers in a Jewish deli trying to hold a conversation...thus a cacophony of bloggers, no?

Anyhow, back to black...

So I was supposed to attend this wedding and knew I already had something I could wear (black) but several weeks ago, when I got the invitation and was still just deliberating traveling across the country to the wedding, I began to look in the stores at other outfits (black) for the wedding. I bought a dress (black) "just in case" I thought my existing outfit wouldn't work. I loved the pleated sleeves, I loved the cut and I loved the simple yet overall elegant look. My honest husband liked the dress, but commented truthfully that because of its thinness (I thought the description is "fine material.") it showed all my bumps and curves. Now, I normally have no real curves, so we weren't talking about the same thing! Hey, this dress is black, I thought. It's supposed to make me look thin! But I put it aside and thought I'd keep looking for the perfect outfit...and maybe I could get rid of some of those bumps and curves over the next 3 weeks.

I began to look through my closet at the clothes I would pack and it hit me: my wardrobe resembles that of an Italian widow. Black, black and more black. I have several pairs of black shoes, a collection of black pantyhose (with some "nightshade" pairs thrown in as a diversion), I have black suits, black skirts, black sweatersm, black hats to go with those black outfits.

When did I begin to wear black? I wondered to myself. Of course, when I was young, nobody wore black. Kids just didn't do that...unless it was black socks. Okay, I cheated, I had some black turtlenecks and black ski pants for those days I pretended to be a snow bunny (who doesn't know how to ski one iota), but usually I wore the black turtlenecks under brightly covered cardigans and sweaters, bringing my look back to life.

I'm a fair-skinned person with dark hair, and yes black does look good on me, but I didn't venture into the black clothing arena perhaps till I was in my mid-teens. Slowly, slowly, it began with sweaters, then skirts, then pants, then shoes..and then it just took off. Formal, evening wear was bought in various styles of black -- it was that elegant look I was aiming for then.

Many years later, much of my wardrobe was bought in various styles and shades of black -- it was that thinning look I was aiming for by that time.

One of my funniest "black" instances was at my engagement party. I had a lovely two piece suit that was black with white polka dots -- no, I didn't look like a Barnum & Bailey clown, although you might picture that in your mind. It was a very elegant look because of the sheerness and classy look of the suit. Enter my future mother-in-law to the social hall. She's wearing...a white suit with black polka dots! As we stood side by side for photo opportunities and to greet guests, I'm guessing that the people around us must've been rubbing their eyes, trying to clear their vision from this seemingly odd eyesight test. I guess everyone was really seeing the world in black & white that evening!

It's funny about my wardrobe; as a kid, I wore lots of various shades of blue, which brought out my eye color. I wore beige for a bit, but that made me look bland and pale, as opposed to "fair." I began to wear teal and forest green, which received many compliments. And then, you'd think it would be as if I took a step backwards when I began to wear black, the color of nothingness, of void, of a vaccuum. But interestingly enough, I've received the MOST compliments when I wear black. (I'm just looking down at myself: black knit top, black skirt, black stockings...and dark blue shoes that look almost black.)

So... I plan to keep black as part of my wardrobe for a while longer yet...at least until I can once again receive a "thin" compliment without having to wear that color. After that, there's no telling what bright, vibrant and vivacious color you'll find me wearing...!

Creativity + Imagination = ?

Blogroll Me!




You know once in a while you see bumper stickers on beat-up old vehicles; these stickers say something like: "My other car is a Rolls-Royce."

I was driving in to work not twenty minutes ago and passed an SUV Toyota Forerunner or some similar make and noticed its vanity plate: IM A BMW.

That got me thinking. I think I'll design a vanity T-shirt for myself. It's going to say:

I'm Einstein's Smarter Sister!

Happy Purim 2006!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Blogroll Me!

The Celebrity Factor

Blogroll Me!



I must admit; I'm often envious of Randi of Cruisin' Mom and Danny of Jew Eat Yet? These people drop names in their posts the way I drop soup mandlen into a hot bowl of chicken soup...they float around a while, then expand.

These two folks can sit in an eatery, lean over to the next table where some A-list or B-list celebrity is seated and say, "Can I please borrow your ketchup?" or "What kind of omelette is that you're having?" or " Excuse me, but aren't you _________? I love that movie_________ you starred in during the post-war years, the one in which you played a __________. And your current stage work...."

I was born with stars in my eyes... No, I don't want to be an actress or live the high life that some celebrities do; I just want to get a chance to meet some and talk to them about some of their work, but mostly about their take on life.

Toronto is known as Hollywood North -- movies and TV series are continually filmed here; we have a fabulous annual film festival that draws lots of headliner-type names; we don't lack for big names who visit and spend extended amounts of time in Toronto.

It's almost springtime. Soon, I will see orange pylons on many suburban and city streets with little markers. These indicate there is filming going on in the vicinity -- trucks and trailers, cables and dressing rooms, sets and extras abound. If I had endless hours in the day, I'd be out on the streets, seeking out those orange pylons, looking for some celebrity who might be around. But I only have time to read about local celebrity spottings in the pages of the daily newspaper...no time to spot the celebrities myself.

But look out if I do...I generally lose my inhibitions, ie. shyness, and just speak up in a real friendly way.

That is the way that I've met:

1. Donny Osmond. He was back in Toronto a number of years ago, doing a second run of "Joseph & the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat". I was walking in a huge downtown mall, through the food court, and who's sitting there on a stool eating, but Donny dearest. I was probably in my late twenties or early thirties at the time, but let me tell you that the 14-year-old within me was envious as I passed him by, saying, "Hi...welcome back to Toronto. Hope you have a great run with the show."

2. Bruno Kirby and Matthew Broderick. They were in Toronto filming "The Freshman" and I was with my friends at a downtown juice bar, sitting at the counter on swivel seats like in an old diner. Someone was sitting beside me, got up and there, two people away from me was Matthew. I didn't want to infringe on his privacy right then and asked the counter guy if he'd ask Matthew if it would be okay to ask for his autograph. I got the green light and moved over beside him; in walks Bruno Kirby (yes, I knew of him wayyyyyyyy before When Harry Met Sally; I remember him from the 1960's Disney movies) and Matthew introduces me to him. Mr. Broderick introduced TorontoPearl to Bruno Kirby. I wasn't so gracious; I didn't turn the other way and introduce Matthew and Bruno to MY friends.

My greatest faux pas of that evening was asking Matthew, "What's it like working with the big guy?" ie. Marlon Brando. Yes, by that time, he was a BIG man, nothing of the hearththrob he'd once been. But I hadn't meant in stature, I'd meant in status, when I'd asked that.

3. Petula Clark. My girlfriend and I were in Montreal and walking on one of the nicer streets. We saw a commotion in front of a hotel, ie. news trucks with solar dishes on the roof, etc, and I said we should go in and see what's doing. There in the lobby was Petula Clark. She was being interviewed for some station and like Woody Allen in "Zelig", we popped up behind her for all the camera ops, ie. I took pics of my friend and Petula; she took pics of me. Then we chatted with her a bit. (I have similar "Zelig" pics with that same friend but in NYC, where we attended a couple of tapings of the Sally Jesse Raphael Show)

Okay, so it's not an impressive list -- there have been other celeb spottings and interfaces, but my mind is drawing a blank right now. Just know that it wouldn't be prudent to take me anywhere where you know there will be celebrities. I am likely to drop you, amble over to the celebrity and make conversation...before my shyness factor realizes what it is I'm doing and kicks into overdrive.

But Randi, and Danny, you give me your daily routine, tell me where you hang out, and next time I'm in L.A., I'll be sure to sit in YOUR seat, at YOUR favorite table, at YOUR favorite eatery or coffee shop, and I'll make conversation with YOUR favorite celebs. Don't worry...I'll have a picture of me taken with them to show you...and I'll get you their autograph as a bonus!

Labels By Any Other Name

Blogroll Me!

I'm long overdue for a post about Labels. I said I'd wanted to write one, and here it is.

Most of my life I was labeled -- sweet, generous, helpful, insighful, analytical, musical...and then there were those that weren't as nice: teacher's pet, browner, nerd, scaredy-cat...

Most kids learn to live with labels; some learn better with them, others are stifled in their personal growth because of these labels.

I've learned that most people do not like labels--labels often mark them as "different," or "odd" or "out of the norm". But sometimes labels help -- they provide some kind of identity, some kind of crutch.

When I was about 27 and having in-depth discussions about personal religious observances, etc., someone said, "Oh...so you're Conservadox." I asked for clarification and then was thrilled. My beliefs finally had a name! I wasn't teeter-tottering between levels of observance anymore; I was finally called something, and something relatively appropriate for me, for my family. It was no longer I, but WE, who were rightfully called Conservadox.

These days I dislike labels again...they're confusing, there are too many and most people hate to classify themselves. From time to time I go on JDate and Frumster.com to see if people I know who are single are advertising to meet people of the opposite sex. I am amazed by the divisions that you can fall into. Not only am I amazed, but I'm more than thankful that I'm not single, that I don't have to go this route and start classifying myself.

Frumster.com wants you to indicate your "Outlook." They have one header: Jewish. Under that is Traditional, Traditional & Growing, Conservative, Conservadox, Reform, Other. (What classifies "Other," I wonder.) There's a second header: Jewish Orthodox. Under that we've got Modern Orthodox Liberal, Modern Orthodox Machmir, Yeshivish Modern, Yeshivish Black Hat, Hassidish, Carlebachian (what, pray tell, does this mean...that you can carry a beatiful tune and lose yourself during the prayer service within the music...?) and Shomer Mitzvot.

G-d forbid a Modern Orthodox Liberal should contact a Yeshivish Black Hat... Perhaps never the twain shall meet. Is that the intent of these classifications for Frumster.com?

If being labeled is within my capacity, I'm usually labeled for something positive. I self-label myself mainly for those nasty negative traits: eg. I'm a procrastinator, I'm disorganized, etc.

Right now I'm labeling myself really tired, so I'll stop here. But let me ask this: Have you ever been knowingly labeled in your lifetime? Has it been beneficial for you in any way ora less-than-positive experience?

I thank you in advance for any comments.

A Blessing on Her Head...

Blogroll Me!



Back in December I found out that a friend's daughter is engaged... I posted about it.

G-d willing, later today, that young woman will stand under the chuppah with her chossen, in essence her "chosen". She will look to the family and friends surrounding her, who've surrounded her all these years...and then she will step away from them and together with her husband will begin a new life together.

I wish them both much mazel, many brachot (blessings) as they embark on this wonderful new journey together...this journey of marriage.

The Way You Do The Things You Do

Blogroll Me!

I know I blogged about this not all that long ago, but sometimes...ya just gotta repeat yourself!

I have a great husband...a special guy...a real find...a jewel to call my own.

I know that, but I think when others realize that as well, it means an awful lot.

This week alone I had three compliments about the special guy that Mr. TorontoPearl is. Two were from strangers who had reason to interact with him and later me. The third compliment was from someone who is not a stranger but is merely an acquaintance of mine in synagogue.

I can't begin to tell you what pleasure I get from hearing others speak so highly about my hubby, about what a kind and warm and friendly and concerned person he is. For me to know it is one thing; for others to recognize it on their own is like icing on a cake...extra-sweet.

His sweet and warm personality is not put-upon; it's genuine. His goodness is all gold. No, he is not perfect and he knows his weaknesses and flaws; thank G-d for that. He is a giver and rarely a taker. A good son, a wonderful husband and father, a more-than-decent human being.

Everything a girl could ask for...and more. That's Mr. TorontoPearl!

And the Rubber Chicken Award Goes To...

Blogroll Me!

I have no clue where rubber chickens rank in this world. I know they're the brunt of many jokes, but I have no clue why.

My oldest son had to do a book report a few years ago, and along with the written report, had to do a presentation to the class as well. He was portrayed as a farm boy with a straw hat, suspenders...and the piece de resistance: a rubber chicken in place of the real thing.

My son is a quiet boy who shirks away from the limelight, but he held center stage with that rubber chicken who, when squeezed, let out a G-d-awful mourning cry.

Last year, your friend and fellow blogger, TorontoPearl, who herself often shirks away from the limelight, decided to use that chicken for her own devices.

If you went to megillah reading at Toronto's--and I believe North America's--largest Orthodox synagogue, and it was time to make noise after hearing the name "Haman", amidst the graggers and horns and clapping hands, and boos and hisses and stomping feet, you might have heard the lone, lengthy squawk of a rubber chicken up in the women's gallery.

Okay, so it's not a typical noisemaker for Purim, but sometimes I dare to be just a little bit different. And I saw the smiles it brought to adults' & children's faces, making my slight self-consciousness all that more worthwhile.

So...this Purim, look out. Pearl and her rubber chicken might be performing at a megillah reading near you!

Some More Food for Thought

Blogroll Me!

The following is excerpted from Everyday Ethics by Joshua Halberstam.

When you judge other people, remember one overrriding axiom: "Everyone is having a hard time."

Everyone is insecure.
Everyone is hassled.
Everyone is tired -- we all need more sleep.
Everyone wishes he had more courage, more money and better social skills.
Everyone wants more glamour in his life, and we all desperately need more laughter.
Few can figure out how they ended up living the life they lead.
Don't be misled by flippant talk; it's a battle for everyone.

...Give people a break. It's not easy doing a life.

Shabbat Shalom, everyone.

Food for Thought: Carrots, Eggs & Coffee

Blogroll Me!


You will never look at a cup of coffee the same way again...

A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to take it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.

Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil, without saying a word. In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners.

She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl.

Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Tell me what you see."

"Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied.

Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard cooked egg. Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma.

The daughter then asked, "What does it mean?"

Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity - boiling water. Each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened. The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.

"Which are you?" she asked her daughter. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?"

Think of this: Which am I?

Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?

Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, have I become hardened and stiff? (this could be a good thing) Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart?

Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you.

When the hour is the darkest and trials are their greatest, do you elevate yourself to another level? How do you handle adversity?

Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?

May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy. The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything. They just make the most of everything that comes along their way. The brightest future will always be based on a forgotten past; you can't go forward in life until you let go of your past failures and heartaches.

When you were born, you were crying and everyone around you was smiling. Live your life so at the end, you're the one who is smiling and everyone around you is crying.

A Note of Thanks

Blogroll Me!

As many of you readers might have noticed, I like to write e-mails, and even blog posts. Writing comes relatively easy to me, as I just sort of write via streamofconsciousness, which for me, is the easiest.

So some of you have received personal notes from me in the past week, others have read my comments on other blogs.

I just want to say thank you for all your good wishes and prayers and notes since my father was taken ill last Wednesday and had to be rushed by ambulance to the hospital. He suffered a series of seizures; at first it was thought that he'd had a major stroke, but thank G-d it's not the case.
There has been vast improvement since last week; yes, my father will remain in hospital for several weeks yet for rehabilitation, but thank G-d he is a moving, speaking, feeling and thinking person.

I have always referred to my father, and even published a poem about him by this name, as my "Yiddishe phoenix." He keeps rising above all the difficulties he's faced throughout his 80+ years, and keeps coming back to us when many times it is clear he shouldn't have. My father, thank G-d, was granted a survivor's persona. If that hadn't been the case, he'd have given up long ago. He always sees that there is someone else worse off than he is, and does not feel sorry for himself and his medical conditions; he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders...it's never his own.

I had been planning a trip this week to California for a wedding and to meet the West Coast blogging contingent with whom I'm in touch. When friends Robert Avrech of Seraphic Secret and Cruisin' Mom learned I had to cancel my trip and the reason why, they took it upon themselves to post about the difficulty that my family was going through and to request people pray for my father. The word got out, the comments and notes came in.

Prayers for my father, ongoing still, are being said in Toronto, Chicago, New York, New Jersey, Los Angeles, Washington, Nevada, Texas, UK, Jerusalem, Switzerland and many other points east, west, north and south. My friend, Doctor Bean of Kerckhoff Coffeehouse even posted a Mesheberach (prayer for the sick) online in a comments section with my father's Hebrew name inserted into the prayer. Talk about an online connection to G-d...

It is overwhelming how vast the blogging world is in reality, but how small it truly becomes.

I thank you all. My family thanks you, and they are also overwhelmed by all the goodness that permeates out there in blogland; we are mostly strangers to one another, but it is evident, that when most needed we become friends.

I grew up with my father always singing, "Anything you can do, I can do better..." Take it upon yourselves to keep making this world a better place by showing everyone your goodness.

You've already shown it to me.

Jewish Moms

Blogroll Me!

I received a wonderful e-mail from aish.com; it features a lighthearted movie.

Sit back and enjoy.

http://www.aish.com/a/purimmoms.asp

"Blue" -- A Poem

BLUE

If I could paint a picture
I'd make it the color of your eyes
The crystalline blue...like marbles that catch the light of the sun.
Eyes that catch the light...full of life.

A vibrant blue to match the serenity of a calm ocean,
to match the blue blanket of a pristine sky.

Right now those eyes are dull, unseeing...or perhaps seeing things only they can see.
They are pained eyes, hurting eyes that no longer spark, that no longer smile for me...
No longer smile for us.

My canvas waits patiently. And this artist waits too...

The Unfolding of a Blogging Life

Blogroll Me!



It goes something like this:

annaolswanger.com is connected to Google; Google is connected to the L.A. Jewish Journal; the L.A. Jewish Journal is connected to Seraphic Secret; Seraphic Secret is connected to A Simple Jew; Seraphic Secret is connected to Treppenwitz; Treppenwitz is connected to PsychoToddler; PsychoToddler is connected to Kerckhoff Coffeehouse; PsychoToddler is connected to Jack's Shack; PsychoToddler is connected to Laya's Place; PsychoToddler is connected to Balabusta; PsychoToddler is connected to a really lengthy blog name, that of his daughter. Jack's Shack is connected to Stacey's Shmatta.

Life of Rubin got in there...somehow. Mirty got in there...somehow. Mirty is connected to NY's Funniest Rabbi. Air Time got in there...somehow. Air Time is connected to Just Passing Through.

Seraphic Secret is connected to News, Views, and Shmooze; Seraphic Secret is connected to Moving On; Mirty is connected to Elie's Expositions.

Cruisin' Mom got in there...somehow. Cruisin Mom is connected to Sweettooth; Cruisin Mom is connected to I Still See a Spark in You.

Jack's Shack is connected to Citizen of the Month; Citizen of the Month is connected to Did Jew Eat? (formerly known as Andy Hardy Writes a Blog). Stacey's Shmatta is connected to Mia's World. Life with Estee got in there...somehow.

Kerckhoff Coffeehouse is connected to Why You Treat Me Like a Dog?

Serandez got in there...somehow.

The list goes on and on; I can't remember all the Jewish Connections or what Our Kids Speak. But I'll tell you that this blogger is having a wonderful time, making friends all over the blogosphere.

This blogger is too tired to link to all the mentioned names, so this blogger says to read her sidebar and link onto the names...yourself. She apologizes if she forgot anyone... much of the bloggers' life has become a blur for her.

Hit Publish.

To Know 'im Is To Love 'im

Blogroll Me!

That is what a work-mate said to me when I came back to work after my last maternity leave. She'd asked my latest son's name and I told her "It's a Hebrew name. NOAM." Her quick response just touched me; it was perfect. And it still is.

Tomorrow, G-d willing, is Noam's 6th birthday. And yes, I who love a play on words, still enjoy telling people what my work-mate said.

My child is just as his name means in Hebrew: "pleasant." He is a little boy who endears himself to others with his great, crinkly-eyed smile and his good nature. He is still part boy, part baby, but thank G-d, he finally gave up that "shmatta blankie" a few weeks ago. He just went cold turkey.

Okay, so thumb still sometimes goes into mouth once in a while. But we just remind him, and out it comes.

[an aside: I'm on one computer now typing this, he's on the other one nearby, playing some defense game. Out of the blue he just called out to me, "If people don't get brises, they're not Jewish." I asked, "What made you say that suddenly?" "I just knew; I wanted to tell you." Okay, thanks, little guy.]

Although he sometimes displays a "forgot to use his words...and hit instead" tendency (usually with his brother and sister), regardless he is a very gentle and sensitive and caring and generous child. I reminded him today how even when he was as young as two years old, and I'd pretend to cry, it would upset him and he'd come to me and stroke me and whine, "Don't cry."

It is my hope as a parent that he will continue to go through life with that wise/innocent air about him and that people will forever look at him and say to themselves, "To know 'im is to love 'im."

Happy 6th birthday, "Noey."

And on a Lighter Note...

Blogroll Me!

Taken from the Jewish Forward

Ethiopian-born Comic Mines History for Laughs
By LOOLWA KHAZZOOM
February 24, 2006

In the standup act he has been touring America with this month, Ethiopian Israeli comedian Yossi Vassa recounts how he came to accumulate six names: When he left Ethiopia at age 10, he was called Andarge; in Sudan — where his family waited nine months for an Israeli airlift, and where Vassa fell deathly ill — he was given the name Terefa (Amharic for "he who is worthy of life"); in Israel, he was called Yossi, and, from the start, he has had what in America would be a twice-hyphenated name reflecting both his parents' lineages: Vassa Sisiya Sahon. "During roll call," he joked, "my teacher would read from a list of my classmates' names on one sheet, and a list of my names on the other."

Armed with just five props — a suitcase, a cane, a bouquet of flowers, a prayer book and a sign with Amharic writing on it — Vassa mixes his own experience with a dash of wit to recount Ethiopian Jewry's recent history. He begins with stories of the rural existence he knew two decades ago ("Before you could date a girl, you had to make sure you were not related seven generations back on both sides — meaning you needed a doctorate of genealogy by age 14") and moves on to life among the Ethiopians living in Israel today ("We dreamed of Jerusalem for 3,000 years, then got dumped in Netanya. That's like spending three millennia pining for Manhattan, and ending up in New Jersey").

Vassa's four-week tour — which was designed to coincide with Black History Month — offered American audiences a hilarious, though sometimes painful, glimpse into the lot of Israel's Ethiopian community. At one point, Vassa set his sights on the matter of Ashkenazic rabbinic garb. "My older brother came home and announced he had become a rabbi," Vassa said. "My mother took one look at the long black coat, pants, shoes and massive fur streimel on top of my brother's head, and asked if it was snowing outside."

The Shmooze reached Vassa just as he was wrapping up his tour and asked how things had gone.

"I learned so much from the people I met," he said. "One of the things that really touched me was the [audience at San Francisco's] Museum of the African Diaspora. I felt I was with a very loving community. They seemed really connected to the story I was telling."

Overheard...

Blogroll Me!

I went to pay a shiva call last night. It was a former classmate's mother who'd passed away late last week.

I wasn't out-of-school friends with that classmate, nor had I ever met her mother, or her sister, at whose home they were sitting shiva. But I felt it only right to go, even though I hadn't seen my classmate in over 25 years. Recently I got in touch with her again for particular reasons, and we were in email contact a couple of times over the past few months.

Anyhow, I'm sitting and talking with her, and there is a couple who get up to leave. My classmate's sister's husband wanted to show them out, and they said something like he shouldn't...shouldn't say goodbye.

He said, "I can say something or show you out the door. I'm not a mourner... (with a little laugh) I guess I'm a co-mourner."

And Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Blog...

Blogroll Me!

...not really.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to tell you the following:

This post is just a quick filler before I hit my pillow at 3 a.m. It's something that's been on my mind the last few days. See if you don't agree with me...!

There is a joke circulating round and round and round the Internet: How To Tell You're Jewish. One of the named ways is that if someone is in the bathroom longer than perhaps three minutes, you knock on the door and yell, "Are you okay in there...is everything okay?"

When I first read that, I broke out in hysterical laughter; my name was all over it! Perhaps it comes with my natural worry syndrome, or maybe not.

But lately I've found something to parallel my standing outside the washroom door and asking a parent/spouse/child "Is everything okay in there?" when they're in there just a tad too long for my liking.

In blogland, we are used to some people posting regularly, and I mean regularly, daily...perhaps in the evening, perhaps midday or morning. But you know when you click that blog's name on your favorites button or your links and you're whisked over to it, you can expect to find something. It's almost the equivalent of reading "Today's Special" on a menu.

Now, what happens when those regular posters are suddenly missing in action? They haven't given you a heads-up that they'll be away from the computer for a few days, they haven't said they have to rein in their blogging addiction and have been told, "Step away from your computer." In essence, they're just not there, as expected?

Do you find that person's e-mail address to write them a note of concern, just like you're yelling through the bathroom door, "Are you okay?" Do you just sit and bide your time and think of various scenarios where that person might've gone and what that person might be up to in lieu of posting for his/her rabid fans? Do you write to fellow blog friends and discuss your concern about why blogger so-and-so didn't post for the past couple of days? Is there such a thing as a bloggers' ALL POINTS BULLETIN.

APB: Missing...one citizen of the month...one Mirty...one New York's Funniest Rabbi...one Seraphic Secret teller...one PsychoToddler...one Cruisin' Mom. Be on the lookout for these bloggers. They could be hiding ANYWHERE...!

Hey, above-mentioned bloggers: "Are you okay? Is everything okay in there?"

My Blog To-Do List

Blogroll Me!

I'm a little too busy to sit and blog for the next couple days so I'm composing this in the meantime:

My Blog To-Do List

1. Write a post about LABELS

2. Write a post about my black wardrobe

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

My To-Do List

1. EVERYTHING ELSE!!

Time Waits for No One

Blogroll Me!

Along with keeping a journal for so many years, I also kept date books/calendars with a brief note for each square. And as time passed I liked to look back to what I did, for example, on the 24th of each month of a particular year, or what I'd done on the same date a year or two earlier.

I didn't always know why I was recording little tidbits, but I felt the pull to do so.

Keeping a blog works in a similar fashion; I can look back a year ago, and see my entry for the equivalent day, but last year, Wednesday being the 23rd of February.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

A Working Mother's Woes
Woe is me...I'm a working mom. Okay, so I bring home a few shekels, and I help pay for the mortgage, the second car, the insurance, the household bills, the day care, the schooling, the day camp, the extra-curricular lessons, shul membership, the dog food, the-- Oh wait, I said I bring home a few shekels, and I help pay for... the dog food. Yup, that's about it. So why am I out there, rushing to and from work, leaving my husband to deal with chauffeuring and meal preps and homework till I get home. I'm not the main breadwinner in this family by any means, but I do help out a bit.

Recently hubby and I looked at my checkbook to see if there was a pattern to my spending habits -- oh, ya, the pattern is THE KIDS. I pay for swimming, for hockey, for chess, for other mind-expanding, brain-enlightening courses they pursue, for school expenses (of course, those are on top of tuition, on top of school uniforms, on top of supply lists) such as trips and food programs and Scholastic book orders.Yes, we spend on THE KIDS, but the rewards are plentiful. My kids will swim/skate up to me, and in a loud and clear voice one of them will ask me to join him in a game of chess. I'll refuse, reminding him that it is in fact I who needs to take chess lessons, and tell him to play with his father, while I suggest his sister read the Scholastic book I ordered. In the meantime, I'll do the laundry and wash my daughter's school jumper and her brother's zippered school logo jacket.

And littlest child, not yet in school, will look at me, and with pleading eyes ask, "Can I have a brownie?" "Sure," I say. After all, it's only a brownie, and not a cataloged list of Scholastic books he wants me to buy for him, or an after-school program he wants to take, or a knapsack he insists on having because it's the latest schoolyard look.

Thank G-d for small blessings...

Okay, so it's now a year later...hmm. Let me see what, if anything, has changed.

Yes, I'm still a working mom. And yes, I still manage to bring in a few shekels. Okay, youngest child is now in school, so he too has become of of "them" -- those school kids who has needs: needs supplies, needs to be included in the optional lunch program, needs trip money, needs his tuition paid. And instead of a brownie, he now needs to have a cream-cheese sandwich as a snack.

Okay, and there's no chess, but there's a performance class a la Broadway musicals; there's still swimming, and hockey team, and now Karate to help round out some already well-rounded-out kids.

Oh, and the dog is a different one. He also has needs -- he needs different pet food, he needs different toys, he needs to get "altered" and he needs puppy classes. I'm beginning to think that his needs will cost me more than those of my kids.

You know what I need? Nothing. 'Cause even a year later, I can still thank G-d for my small...and large...blessings!

"I Say a Little Prayer for You..."

Blogroll Me!

How many times can a person say "I'm sorry"? Not apologizing to someone because you've done them wrong, but rather because they're in dire straits for whatever reason.

"I'm sorry....that you're not well...that you lost your job... that you can't afford a vacation...that you parent is sick...that your child is ill...that your parent/child/sibling passed away...that you've been having rotten 'mazel' (luck) lately..."

Yes, the list goes on and on, and if you're like me, you always have a need to say "I'm sorry that..." to someone or other.

Sometimes we don't say it; we just think it. But I understand from experience that even though the person you're addressing might be saddened or frustrated or upset to hear that "I'm sorry" from so many people, in truth they are thankful. You are thinking of them, you are displaying your concern, and you are opening yourself to them.

There is a case in which we don't say "I'm sorry" often enough, even though we might just think it. Infertility.

I have family and friends who continue to go through the anguish and personal pain of not being able to bear children so readily...or at all. It is not a topic I probe with these people, but if they feel like discussing the heartache and disappointments, I'm certainly there to listen and lend a sympathetic ear. I am a mother of, thank G-d, three beautiful and healthy children. Pregnancy was not really ever an issue for me, and certainly childbirth was not, either. But for others, these two aspects of a life cycle are foreign...and for that, "I'm sorry."

Please take a look at his posting from one of my blogging friends. The name of her blog, Ten Li Koach/"Give Me Strength," is self-explanatory to her blog's focus. What I have learned from reading her blog for over half a year is that life's simple pleasures cannot take away all the pain of not having a child, or of having to go through fertility treatments with all its ups and downs, highs and lows. As much as an infertile couple attempt to smile through their tears, the tears are always with them.

It's time of us as sympathetic and empathetic men and women to lend them an ear, a shoulder to lean on, and the wise words, "I'm sorry."

little lamb lost in the woods...

I feel a bit lost lately.

There are so many things that I want.

I want a baby.

I want a child that I can say, this is mine. This is my daughter or my son. My wonderful husband & I are still in the pre-parenting world. I don’t know what your world is like, the world of people who worry about tuition, doctor visits, homework, soccer tryouts (or in our case, would be little league or karate!), sleepovers, and assorted other worries/concerns.

I am scared that I will never know this.

I want to be able to give all of my love to a child, not a few hours of admiration from afar when we have guests with kids.

I have to keep my distance.

It’s so frustrating. I know that parenting is not a piece of cake. But I want my slice. I am scared of it, but still yearning for it.

Please G-d, what will be?

I’m tired of having hobbies, distractions, depressions.

I fear the answer will be no.

"California Dreamin' (on Such a Winter's Day)"

Blogroll Me!

What are the chances? I rarely, if ever, travel. Last year was a bit of an exception, with my traveling to California, coming home and leaving the same week for a road trip to Orlando, Florida, with the family.

Well, I'm taking another trip to California -- two trips to California in less than one year. What am I doing...making up for lost travel time?

If I were going for business, that would be different, but I'm going for pleasure. Okay...well, I guess you could interpret it by saying that "I'm making it my business to go to California for pleasure!"

Once again, I'm flying the coop, leaving my children in the most capable hands of my husband, and flying solo. Bad enough that I haven't traveled in years; worse that I have to do it alone. Aside from the rather expensive flight/accomodations issue, childcare is an issue for us. It's already difficult to arrange for childcare during school breaks, much less during regular class time, which is what the time frame will be. So I will be the TorontoPearl family representative at a simcha.

I know that several of you bloggers live out the L.A. way, and if it's possible to hold another bloggers' gathering, similar to the one PsychoToddler and Doctor Bean partook in, I'd love to be in the mix with you folks.

I will be haunting your lovely city around the second week in March, so tell Graumann's Chinese Theatre that I'd like to leave my [blogger's] handprints in the sidewalk. See if they can arrange something quickly for my visit with the media in attendance and a Kosher reception to follow. If it's too short notice, I'll settle for a nice cup of California decaf coffee...and a slice of chocolate babka that Cruisin' Mom will no doubt tote along to my handprint debut.

But will she save a piece for me is the question???

If she doesn't, we'll just have to meet on Rodeo Drive at the crack of dawn, each at opposite ends of the street. We'll walk twenty paces forward and will meet face-to-face for a duel. She might have the advantage 'cause she's gone to the shooting range already and aims for the neck. I, on the other hand, will point out the error of her [grammatical and spelling] ways. May the better gal win...!

"One, Singular Sensation..."

Blogroll Me!

I'm feeling pretty good right now. I was at a simcha dance class tonight and was talking to our perky, young teacher after class. She is an adorable and lovely young adult who can take a bunch of women ranging from 30 - 50+ and make dancers out of them while encouraging them with her enthusiasm and positive comments.

Anyhow, after class we were talking about university. I told her I attended university from 1980 - 1983, and then asked her the "forbidden" question: "Were you even born then?" She smiled and said no, and when I further asked, she said she was born in 1985. I said, "Oh, I feel old." "Really?" she said. "I don't see you as old."
"I'll be 45 this year." "Really? If anything, I'd have thought you're maybe 35."

I love this girl. I asked if I could keep her with me in my back pocket to pull her out whenever I needed a compliment.

Last week someone told me that I didn't appear to be anywhere close to 45.

But... This past year, when I turned 44, and people at work wished me happy birthday, I asked one of them, a newer fellow employee, if she knew how old I was. She said she didn't and I told her to guess. She didn't want to and I insisted...simply because I'm used to people thinking I'm between 5 - 8 years younger. So I thought I'd perhaps hear her say "40?" Anyhow, what came out of her mouth? "Um...45?" DAMN ME for having asked. Here, instead of making me younger than I am, she even aged me by a year!

Yes, the gray hairs are in among the brunette ones, the fine lines are slowly starting to draw themselves on my hand and along my mouth (just 'cause I smile so much...of course!), but I'm not yet needing bifocals, thank the Lord!

I think I continue to view the world (and I know I've written posts similar to this one, thus I'm repeating myself) through the eyes of my twelve-year-old self. I converse with people my age or even older, and all along, I feel like I'm a little kid, and I often wonder if others besides my parents, siblings and sometimes husband perceive me the same way. One of my best friends' favorite expressions over the years to me has been, "Pearly, you're such a child." (said with an exaggerated real downhome, Southern accent) Now, I'm not immature in any noticeable way so that's not why she's said it, or why my husband sometimes says, "You're a little girl." I think it's that wondrous, in-awe-of-the-world expression that I show, still discovering new and wonderful things and seeing life in very simple terms, content and sometimes very happy to let others take the reins and lead my horse...on the merry-go-round of life.

YOUTH? Fleeting, for sure, but for some of us, it decides to linger just a little bit longer...and for that I'm most thankful.

An Observation

Blogroll Me!

For the past month or so, I've been turning to some of my favorite blogs and finding that the writers are announcing that they're suffering from "blogger's block" or "post lull syndrome". Several have given us a heads-up that they will not be as in-your-face with their posts, taking a back seat for a while.

Truth is that I've been laughing inwardly and thinking: "How could these people not have anything to write about? There's so much going on in the world, in personal lives, in fact there are not enough hours in the day to get the ideas down on screen."

My mind works very disjointedly -- the thoughts just tumble down one after the other, shoving each other to get out of my brain and onto the screen. "How could there possibly be not anything to write about?"

Suddenly, to my utter surprise, I understand what these bloggers are talking about. You can't be "on" all the time, collecting material for your next posts...or I've decided that I can't be. The idea drawer is pretty empty lately.

Perhaps I'm just having a really good time reading others' blogs and putting in time adding my often-creative comments to their posts. Perhaps there's not much left of me after that to call my own.

I realize that although I do get personal in my blog, I truly hold back a lot. Yes, if I gave it my all, posts would continue to be attempts at "funny" or "lightly amusing" but I think they also would be deeper, more honest, just a pure release of what I'm truly thinking or feeling, with no personal barriers erected.

But of course I can't do that...the whole world is watching, and listening. And so, I hold myself and my thoughts in check. Blogging takes up a huge chunk of my day and night; I show little self-discipline when it comes to this medium. Because of writing on my blog and reading other blogs, I've shirked many responsibilities and I've seen the impact.

A couple weeks ago, my daughter -- very justly, I might add -- accused me of being "married to the computer. You like it more than you like us. You love it..." When an eight-year-old tells you to your face something you know she shouldn't have to, it's saying a lot. When my ten-year-old son tells me that I should've been making school lunches at night instead of being on the computer, and that I have to rush in the morning, it says more than it should. And when the same child accuses me of being to blame because "Abba turned off the Internet 'cause of you" that says a lot too. And when your work-work suffers because you check out blogs instead of copy editing, that's saying too much.

So, I, too, will try to back off of writing so frequently, unless something wild and wonderful inspires me to post. There are enough fine blogs out there -- most of them funnier and more inspiring than mine. If you don't get a daily or weekly Pearlie of Wisdom, you're not missing too much. You'll still see me and sometimes my words visiting your blogs.

So until next time...

A Brief Spelling Lesson

Blogroll Me!



If you understand this post,
that means you're "getting it"
'cause your brain is on.

The brain's capacity to channel information
is its strength.
Wow! It's truly an amazing concept.

I accept your weakness
in spelling,
except for when you make silly errors.

If your spelling continues to improve,
I will compliment you on your progress.
And oh, how positive messages help complement your humble self.

I hope this post will help affect how you write
because the effect of correct spelling helps draw in readers --
not send them running in the other direction.

Now I'll say,
"You're welcome"
to your silent "Thank you."

The Day-After Post

Blogroll Me!

Okay, it's February 15th. What's so special about today? It's the day AFTER Valentine's Day, not even Valentine's Day.

Why is it special? Essentially 'cause "...each day is Valentine's Day" according to Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart's lyrics to MY FUNNY VALENTINE.

Everybody was busy writing posts yesterday, on the day of love. Today is more suitable. Just when you thought it was over, Pearl's back to remind you of the day.

Consider this post on par with a 50%-off sale of Valentine's Day goods, ie. balloons, cards, candies, chocolates, stuffed toys, decorations. Just like those things are nice, but just a tiny less impressionable than when handled on February 14, this post also doesn't have quite the same impact.

It's the day after. The cynicism is louder. [see image for proof of that statement]

I once had a date with a guy, a nice enough guy. We volunteered together for a social program and didn't know each other all that well. But he thought enough of me to invite me to a cousin's engagement party, and enough to present me with a Valentine's Day card and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. That's nice, right? Only thing: it wasn't Valentine's Day. It was the day after.

Yes, it's the thought that counts, but I knew that the chocolate would've been discounted (I doubt he bought it in advance) and the card's message was not appropriate for two people who barely know one another.

Children exchange valentines. That's okay -- it's sort of an accepted social nicety and part and parcel of childhood, like birthday cards, Easter cards, Christmas cards, etc. But when you're at a certain twentysomething age, you don't really want to get a social nicety card from a first-time (turned out it was a one-time-thing, too) date. If you're going to celebrate Valentine's Day at all with cards, you want that card to come from that special someone in your life, that person who actually means something to you in some warm and cozy way.

I work in the romance industry. I read romance books for a living. I like some of the stories, yet I understand that they are "mythical" and often rather unrealistic. But apparently somebody likes these books and continues to buy them and help pay my salary.

Romance isn't all candy and chocolate and sweet kisses. [ Just check out that image in the top right-hand corner.] But romance is special with that special someone in your life. Took me a while to find him -- or rather, for him to find me -- but since I found him, "...each day is Valentine's Day."

Happy Belated Valentine's Day!

"My Yiddishe Mama," Tom Jones-Style

Blogroll Me!



If I can figure out how to attach a sound file to this post, I will, but in the meantime, I must tell you that I received an e-mail. It's a sound wave of Tom Jones singing -- in English -- "My Yiddishe Mama." That classic tearjerker of a song being sung by the timeless teenager, that English ( or is it Welsh?) musical sex symbol.

He says that his father taught him the song. (Was his father Jewish? Why would he learn such a song otherwise?)

I wonder when and where Tom performs this Jewish hit if the women in the audience fling their "woman size" or XXL brief-cut underwear onto the stage, and heavily sigh, "OY...det vas beauuuutiful. Now, eef I vas only younger and eef I could only speek English vitout det Yeedeshe eccent, Tom might be eenterested in me. To hell mit mine husband!"

To Write or To Type...? That Is the Question

Blogroll Me!

I was writing offline to a fellow blogger and signed off with: "Your Canadian pen-pal, Pearl." I quickly corrected it and said, "I mean, 'Your Canadian computer-pal, Pearl.' "

This is what he responded with: "I guess blogging puts pen-pals mostly out of business."

You know what? He's right!

Yes, blogging doesn't always offer that same formal touch that writing letters does -- in a sense, you're offering everyone in the world to be your pen-pal, to read about what's currently happening in your life. It's no longer just you and your pen-pal; it's become you and this blog pal, and that blog pal, and he told two blog pals and now they're your blog pals, too.

I was always known for my lengthy detailed letters -- I talked about things that were important to me, or at least that I thought were important to me at a particular age. Family and friends enjoyed getting envelopes addressed from me with S.W.A.K. across the back flap; I'd find the nicest stationery boxes and notecards, apply the nicest Canadian stamps I could find, write with the nicest ink pens I had.

I made my letter writing an art of sorts. And many people over the years have collected this "art" of mine. And I collected letters, too, from pen-pals I had here, there and everywhere.

So I still have pals -- here, there and everywhere, thanks to the Internet and the blogging medium. I still write detailed descriptions of things that are important to me, or at least that I think are important to me at my particular age. But I know I'm holding back a lot more than if I were to express myself on a piece of notepaper, fold it up, seal it in an envelope and send it off.

Those envelope walls, that envelope's back flap help to protect my words. The Internet doesn't.

Time is the other factor that makes me a blogger, rather than a letter writer. I can type so much faster than I can write, and if I write quickly, the handwriting is more illegible. I'd often reread my letters, edit them and rewrite them to my liking. With a blog, if I want to do the same, I just hit delete or I highlight a certain passage, delete and re-type.

Simple. Speedy. The touch of a button.

Publish post.

With Microphone in Hand

Blogroll Me!

It is your debut. You're on a small stage in a bar and it's open mic night, thus a chance to sing and belt your heart out.

The spotlights overhead are bright, truly making it your night to shine.

I want you to find a song that truly represents you, represents your life, represents everything we need to know about you.

What is that one song that you would associate with yourself?

For me, for the past 25 years at least, that song has been Diana Ross's "I'm Coming Out."

Now I know what you're thinking, because of what the term "coming out" has come to mean. Be assured that THAT meaning has absolutely nothing to do with me.

But why I chose this song? For a shy pearl of a girl who emerged from her oyster shell in her late teens, and continued to slowly emerge and reveal her true colors, which sat latent for so many years, this song is perfect.

I amaze myself sometimes with the boldness I display, with my vocalness, whether oral or written, with my embracing of people. Looking back at who I once was, I know I wasn't what I am today. Yes, I was friendly and warm, but I didn't have close school friends in my early years. (my daughter questioned me on that the other night: "Were you the most popular loser?")

The genuine Pearl continues to unfold before my very eyes...

So thanks, Diana Ross, for helping me find a song that I could call my own.

I'm Coming Out

I'm coming out
I'm coming out
I'm coming out
I'm coming out
I'm coming out

I'm coming out
I want the world to know
Got to let it show
I'm coming out
I want the world to know
I got to let it show

There's a new me coming out
And I just have to live
And I just wanna give
I'm completely positive

I think this time around
I am gonna do it
Like you never knew it
Ooh, I'll make it through

The time has come for me
To break out of the shell
I have to shout
That I am coming out

I'm coming out
I want the world to know
Got to let it show
I'm coming out
I want the world to know
I got to let it show
I'm coming out
I want the world to know
Got to let it show
I'm coming out
I want the world to know
I got to let it show

I've got to show the world
All that I wanna be
And all my abilities
here's so much more to me

Somehow, I have to make them
Just understand
I got it well in hand
And, oh, how I have planned

I'm spreadin' love
There is no need to fear
And I just feel so glad
Every time I hear:

I'm coming out
I want the world to know
Got to let it show
I'm coming out
I want the world to know
I got to let it show

The Medicine Cabinet

Blogroll Me!

I've got a cold. I've got a full-blown, stuffed nose, bad cough, congested chest, sneezy type of cold. Oh ya, and I've even been lent a sexy, hoarse voice. Sometimes that's the only good thing that comes out of a cold!

This cold has been making the rounds in our house since last week, and I thought I could avoid it, but it ensnared me, too.

I'm at the point where I need some medicine -- anything from keeping me up at night, listening to my own cough. So what do I do? I head for the medicine cabinet. And what do I find there?

I find children's medicine -- a pink, bubble-gum flavored one for colds, a purple grape-flavored one for fevers and a truly medicinal "cherry-flavored" one for coughs.

Any cold medicine for adults in there? Yup, only a trial sample cough medicine. I check the expiry date: April 2005. Um, I wonder if this expired medicine will make me cough any less.

So I decide I'd better check all the expiry dates on all the medicines and health products in there. And I see that most everything has expired. Is it harmful to use Vaseline whose "best before date" was 1998? I remember buying that jar when my 2nd child was born -- in 1997. I have other items that are long-overdue but are kept for...I don't know what. I have diaper creams circa 1995 and oatmeal based bath powder circa 2003. I have antacids from long past, so long past, that I'd probably need to take a newer antacid to counteract the ill-effects from the original antacids. I have deodorants (did you know they have expiry dates, too?) that probably aren't keeping me as fresh as they could be, seeing that they're three years old!

I can appreciate actual expiry dates, but I can't accept products that have codes -- those codes mean nothing to the average household Joe or Joelene, but call a Consumer Information line at the company and the "helpful person" at the other end of the line immediately rattles off what each number and letter of that code stands for. And damn, when I get the information from them that the product I'm holding in my hand is ... EXPIRED!!

Not too long ago, there was a Canadian contest to find the person with the oldest tube of Polysporin. I had a pretty old tube -- to the point of the ends being rusty -- of Preparation H, but knew that was not what they were looking for in this particular contest. So I just sat this contest out, but discovered the winning tube was from 1955!

This contest was held to make Canadians clean out their medicine cabinets so they're prepared with effective over-the counter medications. So, effective and having an effect can mean two very different things -- just think of those old antacids I've got. Not too effective, but would certainly have an effect!

I challenge you all to go into the dark, into the unknown. Open those toiletry bags, fling open those medicine chest doors, pull open those bathroom drawers and under-the-sink cabinet doors and begin stalking -- and taking stock of -- your health and beauty products. No doubt you'll find items that no longer belong...that haven't belonged in 3-4 years. Toss them, flush those pills and the contents of those medicine bottles down the toilet, but do keep at least one item for posterity's sake.

I'll know I'll continue to hold on to my Preparation H. You never know when a contest will be held to find the oldest tube of that! And when my lucky tube of Preparation H wins, it'll be me, TorontoPearl, saying to Canada and maybe even North America, "Stick that up yours...!"

Modern Art...or Food for Thought

Blogroll Me!

This is a sculpture. This is a food sculpture. This is a food sculpture made up of peanut-butter- sandwich crusts and chocolate-spread-sandwich crusts left on their plates by TorontoPearl's children and their friends who were visiting. This is a food sculpture made by TorontoPearl's husband.

No doubt TorontoPearl's husband was at the time either: a) creative or b) very bored.

I opt for b.

Retraction:
Three days have passed since I posted this entry. I just told my husband that I posted it and when he asked what I said in the post, I told him. Apparently, I had it ALL WRONG.
It was not TorontoPearl's husband at all who designed this food sculpture -- indeed it was TorontoPearl's children and their friends who were visiting who designed it. My husband was just there as the official photographer.
I do apologize for my assumption. And you do know what they say about "assuming"...

The $20 Bill

Yes, I could've used an American $20 bill for an image, because most of my readers are American, but then, how would it look to my fellow Canadians? As it is, I already use American spelling for my blog posts and offline correspondence with many of you.

Blogroll Me!

A well-known speaker started off his seminar by holding up a $20.00 bill.

In the room of 200, he asked,"Who would like this $20 bill?"

Hands started going up.

He said, "I am going to give this $20 to one of you but first, let me do this." He proceeded to crumple up the $20 dollar bill.

He then asked, "Who still wants it?" Still the hands were up in the air.

"Well, " he replied, "what if I do this?"And he dropped it on the ground and started to grind it into the floor with his shoe. He picked it up, now crumpled and dirty. "Now, who still wants it?"

Still the hands went into the air.

"My friends, we have all learned a very valuable lesson. No matter what I did to the money, you still wanted it because it did not decrease in value. It was still worth $20. Many times in our lives, we are dropped, crumpled, and ground into the dirt by the decisions we make and the circumstances that come our way. We feel as though we are worthless. But no matter what has happened or what will happen, you will never lose your value. Dirty or clean, crumpled or finely creased, you are still priceless to those who DO LOVE you. The worth of our lives comes not in what we do or who we know, but by WHO WE ARE. You are special- Don't EVER forget it."