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I've just written this free-form poem, a composite of lines and phrases that I've extracted from my e-mail messages to fellow bloggers, and their e-mail messages to me. Each phrase is a different color, and I've just thrown them together to make some kind of (weird in its own way) sense.
Online with Bloggers
My chair was biting into my back and the pain was radiating into my skull.
A very surreal experience -- sequined shirt and all!
"PREMATURE POSTING."
Sweet dreams.
Keep up your writing, don't give up! Good things almost always come from good people.
It's almost like a secret society - we are understated in some ways and have a secret story life inside us, wanting to share it, but only when it's 'right'. Sometimes in spite of words of wisdom from others.
How many people is it worth writing for?
Is the content so strong (which I suspect that it is) that the form is intrinsically compelling?
Anyway, I haven't quite figured out what I think about the form...
I have a tendency to repeat phrases that work.
I have a tendency to repeat phrases that work.
I have a tendency to repeat phrases that work.
Kind regards.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Poetry in Motion
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The following are poems that I had published last year in Parchment, an annual Canadian-Jewish literary journal. It is an honor to be included in this journal, as well as being given the opportunity to read my work at the book's launch, held in conjunction with Toronto's Jewish Book Fair.
This journal attracts well-known Canadian Jewish authors, poets, playwrights and essayists, and to find my name and work among theirs is a "kavod" for me.
To top that, I have been in the company of a special poet in this book, both last year and two years earlier, when both our poetry was included and we were both asked to read at the launch. This special poet is my now-nineteen-year-old niece, my brother's daughter. When her work was included in the book in 2002, she was the youngest ever to submit and be included in the book. Last year, she was away for the reading, and her maternal grandmother read my niece's poem. Both the delivery and the piece were very beautiful.
Yesterday I submitted to Parchment a couple of poems I wrote earlier this year. I hope that a few months from now, I can share them with you as being "published" poems.
In the meantime, read these; they are glances into the Israel I remember from my stay between October 1983-March 1984.
Remembered Vignettes
i.
a stroke of ice-blue eye shadow here,
another stroke there.
sweep that pale peach blush up,
then draw it down.
light pink across the lower lover’s lips –
pucker.
dab a cotton puff.
and another.
herzliya sunset over a windswept beach.
ii.
atop a girls’ religious seminary
high in the land of Sefad
a sign proclaims:
WE WANT MOSHIACH NOW.
DO A MITZVAH…AND ANOTHER.
inside the cold stone building
girls are huddled in a central hall,
grouped around an ancient-looking black telephone,
giggling, talking excitedly among themselves.
one girl holds the receiver to her ear,
waiting and listening.
“she’s on hold for a blessing from the rebbe,”
is explained to me when i cast a curious look.
suddenly a motion of hands waving. a hush.
“amen. thank you. goodbye.”
a collective smile.
“i got a blessing! i got a blessing!
the rebbe gave his blessings for a good shidduch!”
an impromptu hora is danced.
these future brides without their grooms.
iii.
such bare walls.
an old, chipped wooden wardrobe.
two single cots.
negelwasser basins wait patiently below each.
a naked bulb hangs low overhead.
accentuating, illuminating –
damn!
forgot to turn off the light before sundown.
no shabbos goys here.
i sleep a restless sleep.
iv.
climbing the darkened stairway
up to the fifth floor
on a friday night
i ponder the situation.
i, an outsider, have been invited
to be a guest at this stranger’s apartment.
perhaps not a stranger…?
perhaps, rather, a peer from days gone by,
i’ve been told.
i enter the apartment and blink with the
sudden brightness.
the room comes into focus.
a shabbos table
bedecked with white linen cloth, silverware
and fine china.
at one end sit two large round challahs
and a wine bottle
accompanied by a platter of gefilte fish and
dish of pink horseradish.
am i the shabbos queen, after all?
“chaya!”
i look from where this booming voice has come
and see a robust man
seated at the other end of the table.
black beard blending with black jacket
and black hat askew on his head.
that face i don’t recognize,
but that voice i know.
and i am once again in a crowded,
fifth-grade schoolyard during recess…
“can i have some of your fritos?” you ask.
The following are poems that I had published last year in Parchment, an annual Canadian-Jewish literary journal. It is an honor to be included in this journal, as well as being given the opportunity to read my work at the book's launch, held in conjunction with Toronto's Jewish Book Fair.
This journal attracts well-known Canadian Jewish authors, poets, playwrights and essayists, and to find my name and work among theirs is a "kavod" for me.
To top that, I have been in the company of a special poet in this book, both last year and two years earlier, when both our poetry was included and we were both asked to read at the launch. This special poet is my now-nineteen-year-old niece, my brother's daughter. When her work was included in the book in 2002, she was the youngest ever to submit and be included in the book. Last year, she was away for the reading, and her maternal grandmother read my niece's poem. Both the delivery and the piece were very beautiful.
Yesterday I submitted to Parchment a couple of poems I wrote earlier this year. I hope that a few months from now, I can share them with you as being "published" poems.
In the meantime, read these; they are glances into the Israel I remember from my stay between October 1983-March 1984.
Remembered Vignettes
i.
a stroke of ice-blue eye shadow here,
another stroke there.
sweep that pale peach blush up,
then draw it down.
light pink across the lower lover’s lips –
pucker.
dab a cotton puff.
and another.
herzliya sunset over a windswept beach.
ii.
atop a girls’ religious seminary
high in the land of Sefad
a sign proclaims:
WE WANT MOSHIACH NOW.
DO A MITZVAH…AND ANOTHER.
inside the cold stone building
girls are huddled in a central hall,
grouped around an ancient-looking black telephone,
giggling, talking excitedly among themselves.
one girl holds the receiver to her ear,
waiting and listening.
“she’s on hold for a blessing from the rebbe,”
is explained to me when i cast a curious look.
suddenly a motion of hands waving. a hush.
“amen. thank you. goodbye.”
a collective smile.
“i got a blessing! i got a blessing!
the rebbe gave his blessings for a good shidduch!”
an impromptu hora is danced.
these future brides without their grooms.
iii.
such bare walls.
an old, chipped wooden wardrobe.
two single cots.
negelwasser basins wait patiently below each.
a naked bulb hangs low overhead.
accentuating, illuminating –
damn!
forgot to turn off the light before sundown.
no shabbos goys here.
i sleep a restless sleep.
iv.
climbing the darkened stairway
up to the fifth floor
on a friday night
i ponder the situation.
i, an outsider, have been invited
to be a guest at this stranger’s apartment.
perhaps not a stranger…?
perhaps, rather, a peer from days gone by,
i’ve been told.
i enter the apartment and blink with the
sudden brightness.
the room comes into focus.
a shabbos table
bedecked with white linen cloth, silverware
and fine china.
at one end sit two large round challahs
and a wine bottle
accompanied by a platter of gefilte fish and
dish of pink horseradish.
am i the shabbos queen, after all?
“chaya!”
i look from where this booming voice has come
and see a robust man
seated at the other end of the table.
black beard blending with black jacket
and black hat askew on his head.
that face i don’t recognize,
but that voice i know.
and i am once again in a crowded,
fifth-grade schoolyard during recess…
“can i have some of your fritos?” you ask.
Play It Again, Pearl
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I've been blogging since early December, and once in a while, I think a replay of an earlier post is in order. Because I posted about my youngest child just before this post, I'll keep with that theme and present you (latecomers perhaps to Pearlies of Wisdom) with this post from last December.
Sit back, relax, put up your feet and start reading.
And if there's any way for you to track down and hear the referenced song (perhaps by going to Amy Sky's Web page), do so. The lyrics, as well as Amy's beautiful, mournful singing, stir the soul.
http://wwwpearliesofwisdom.blogspot.com/2004/12/its-little-things-that-count.html
I've been blogging since early December, and once in a while, I think a replay of an earlier post is in order. Because I posted about my youngest child just before this post, I'll keep with that theme and present you (latecomers perhaps to Pearlies of Wisdom) with this post from last December.
Sit back, relax, put up your feet and start reading.
And if there's any way for you to track down and hear the referenced song (perhaps by going to Amy Sky's Web page), do so. The lyrics, as well as Amy's beautiful, mournful singing, stir the soul.
http://wwwpearliesofwisdom.blogspot.com/2004/12/its-little-things-that-count.html
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Games, Grins & Giggles
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My little guy is an avid game player, whether it be sports, a board game, GameCube or Foozball.
He is not only a game player; he is a game winner! This kidlet, who's been around since 2000, has mastered the art of winning...and laughing deviously and demonically as he is declared "the winner!"
Yesterday we were playing a Pop-o-Matic game, circa 1970-- you know, Trouble, Headache, Frustration...and the less renowned Cross Over the Bridge. These board games are housed at my parents' from when I was a child living there. Mr. TorontoPearl, Jr., was my partner in Cross Over the Bridge. I did let him get away with stuff, which I probably wouldn't let a peer in my age group get away with, and he was a winner -- not once, not twice, but three times. The glee that broke out on his face made it all worthwhile.
He is a master controller when he plays GameCube with his older brother, and he learns from the games, too. Not just "bad things", but he can name countless baseball players and baseball teams from playing an online baseball game. He is thrilled to announce to me in the kitchen, "I'm winning...sixteen to nothing."
This evening we played Foozball. Perhaps it's that hand-eye masterful coordination he's acquired from his playing GameCube, but whatever the reason, he rightfully won each time we played...and we played several times. He shrieked with joy and giggled in abundance knowing that he "beat Eema."
As I'm wearing egg on my face from having been beaten (ooh...I saw that inintentional pun AFTER I typed this) by a five-year-old, that five-year-old is wearing a big grin from having beaten his mother.
And seeing that grin on that winner's face makes me realize something. Some years ago I rolled the dice, moved a few spaces ahead in life, rolled the dice again, acquired some prime real estate, rolled the dice again, and got some pieces to call my own.
I think I'm the biggest winner ... in THE GAME OF LIFE.
My little guy is an avid game player, whether it be sports, a board game, GameCube or Foozball.
He is not only a game player; he is a game winner! This kidlet, who's been around since 2000, has mastered the art of winning...and laughing deviously and demonically as he is declared "the winner!"
Yesterday we were playing a Pop-o-Matic game, circa 1970-- you know, Trouble, Headache, Frustration...and the less renowned Cross Over the Bridge. These board games are housed at my parents' from when I was a child living there. Mr. TorontoPearl, Jr., was my partner in Cross Over the Bridge. I did let him get away with stuff, which I probably wouldn't let a peer in my age group get away with, and he was a winner -- not once, not twice, but three times. The glee that broke out on his face made it all worthwhile.
He is a master controller when he plays GameCube with his older brother, and he learns from the games, too. Not just "bad things", but he can name countless baseball players and baseball teams from playing an online baseball game. He is thrilled to announce to me in the kitchen, "I'm winning...sixteen to nothing."
This evening we played Foozball. Perhaps it's that hand-eye masterful coordination he's acquired from his playing GameCube, but whatever the reason, he rightfully won each time we played...and we played several times. He shrieked with joy and giggled in abundance knowing that he "beat Eema."
As I'm wearing egg on my face from having been beaten (ooh...I saw that inintentional pun AFTER I typed this) by a five-year-old, that five-year-old is wearing a big grin from having beaten his mother.
And seeing that grin on that winner's face makes me realize something. Some years ago I rolled the dice, moved a few spaces ahead in life, rolled the dice again, acquired some prime real estate, rolled the dice again, and got some pieces to call my own.
I think I'm the biggest winner ... in THE GAME OF LIFE.
I'm on a (Blog) Roll...
Blogroll Me!
A Blogger's Prayer
Now I sit me
down to blog
on this great venue --
my weblog.
I pray the computer
my blog to keep
when I lay me
down to sleep.
I hope to rise to
read your critique
it's the necessary feedback
that I seek.
I thank you each
for all your time
for reading my words,
and reading my rhyme.
I must end here
my day is done
goodbye, fellow bloggers,
au revoir, everyone.
A Blogger's Prayer
Now I sit me
down to blog
on this great venue --
my weblog.
I pray the computer
my blog to keep
when I lay me
down to sleep.
I hope to rise to
read your critique
it's the necessary feedback
that I seek.
I thank you each
for all your time
for reading my words,
and reading my rhyme.
I must end here
my day is done
goodbye, fellow bloggers,
au revoir, everyone.
Do You Speak Blog?
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Hey, people, I just came up with a new term.
You know the term "doggone it" -- that pretty euphemism for "damn it"?
I just thought up "bloggone it".
It's a two-purpose word. I'm going to experience something today and then I'm going to "bloggone it!" Or, if I mess up my post and lose it without being able to recover it, I'll be likely to say, "Oh, bloggone it!"
Oh, and when I was typing this, I came up with another term: a bloglet.
If I allow you to guest post on my blog, you become a "bloglet"!
And if you're blogging too much, as I do, I might announce/declare a "blogs-out": a signal for turning off blogs and getting some much-needed sleep.
And then there's a "blogime" -- that pattern of action that sees you blogging before breakfast, at lunch and after dinner.
And sometimes, like me, you might be "blogged-out" -- you will have lost your brilliant ideas for the time being, will need to advertise for a bloglet and will heed the blogs-out signal.
Oh, bloggone it, my lunchtime is over.
Hey, people, I just came up with a new term.
You know the term "doggone it" -- that pretty euphemism for "damn it"?
I just thought up "bloggone it".
It's a two-purpose word. I'm going to experience something today and then I'm going to "bloggone it!" Or, if I mess up my post and lose it without being able to recover it, I'll be likely to say, "Oh, bloggone it!"
Oh, and when I was typing this, I came up with another term: a bloglet.
If I allow you to guest post on my blog, you become a "bloglet"!
And if you're blogging too much, as I do, I might announce/declare a "blogs-out": a signal for turning off blogs and getting some much-needed sleep.
And then there's a "blogime" -- that pattern of action that sees you blogging before breakfast, at lunch and after dinner.
And sometimes, like me, you might be "blogged-out" -- you will have lost your brilliant ideas for the time being, will need to advertise for a bloglet and will heed the blogs-out signal.
Oh, bloggone it, my lunchtime is over.
Monday, August 01, 2005
The Birds Flew Away
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In the past I've written about how conscious of "lashon harah" we were in our home, growing up. My parents' favorite analogy was: "Words are like birds. Once they're out, they fly away and you can't always retrieve them."
I had a close girlfriend call me today, ask if I had a few minutes to speak, and something in her tone made me suspicious. And rightfully so. She was not calling just for an idle chitchat -- we'd had all last Shabbos afternoon to do that. She was calling to make me aware that I had hurt her feelings this past Shabbos with something I said, and that I have a bad habit of bringing something in her life to the forefront.
I wasn't shocked at what she told me; I was aware on Saturday that I made a comment in a joking manner that, once it was out of my mouth, I had a sense of what it must've sounded like, and couldn't really backpedal. I wasn't shocked, I was hurt...not at her announcement, but at the fact that I had hurt someone close to me and unintentionally.
I told my friend that I was thankful she'd told me my shortcoming; that was the only way that I was to learn how to improve myself and be aware of her sensitivity about the issue. I know people who bear their grievances silently for years; at some point in time there is a major outburst and all the grievances of years gone by come tumbling forth. That is certainly not the way to handle matters, but matters have to be dealt with at hand, or with just a small passage of time, perhaps to think through the approach "the victim" wants to take in order to make their grievances known.
My friend thanked me for being so accepting of what she had to tell me, but I said to her, "Why should I have been anything but? There is nothing for me to be defensive about. I thank you that you told me."
I told her my self-improvement in this area will not happen overnight, even if I try hard enough. I let her know that she can slap my wrist, so to speak, if I say something again that bothers her.
Being honest is sometimes a chance people take, and being on the receiving end of honesty isn't always what one wants to hear...but sometimes it's the only way they CAN HEAR.
In the past I've written about how conscious of "lashon harah" we were in our home, growing up. My parents' favorite analogy was: "Words are like birds. Once they're out, they fly away and you can't always retrieve them."
I had a close girlfriend call me today, ask if I had a few minutes to speak, and something in her tone made me suspicious. And rightfully so. She was not calling just for an idle chitchat -- we'd had all last Shabbos afternoon to do that. She was calling to make me aware that I had hurt her feelings this past Shabbos with something I said, and that I have a bad habit of bringing something in her life to the forefront.
I wasn't shocked at what she told me; I was aware on Saturday that I made a comment in a joking manner that, once it was out of my mouth, I had a sense of what it must've sounded like, and couldn't really backpedal. I wasn't shocked, I was hurt...not at her announcement, but at the fact that I had hurt someone close to me and unintentionally.
I told my friend that I was thankful she'd told me my shortcoming; that was the only way that I was to learn how to improve myself and be aware of her sensitivity about the issue. I know people who bear their grievances silently for years; at some point in time there is a major outburst and all the grievances of years gone by come tumbling forth. That is certainly not the way to handle matters, but matters have to be dealt with at hand, or with just a small passage of time, perhaps to think through the approach "the victim" wants to take in order to make their grievances known.
My friend thanked me for being so accepting of what she had to tell me, but I said to her, "Why should I have been anything but? There is nothing for me to be defensive about. I thank you that you told me."
I told her my self-improvement in this area will not happen overnight, even if I try hard enough. I let her know that she can slap my wrist, so to speak, if I say something again that bothers her.
Being honest is sometimes a chance people take, and being on the receiving end of honesty isn't always what one wants to hear...but sometimes it's the only way they CAN HEAR.
How You Might Have Found Me
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I get such a kick out of seeing some of the entries that lead you to me, I have to note them every few days. Some leave me grinning, others leave my face frozen in the shape of a big question mark with "Huh?" scrawled across my forehead.
Aside from the repeated "Boy Vey!" or "Tefillat HaDerech" searches, some of these have been the key to helping you find me and my pearlies.
* wisdom for hard-headed kids ("I need to hear some of that wisdom!")
* "where the wild things are" + "temporary tattoo"
* kippah bruce willis ("Forget about my blog, what do those 2 items have in common, I wonder?")
* Hebrew Greek words mean pearl
* beis hamikdash and stock market ("What I would sacrifice for a hot stock market tip!")
* pearl of wisdom images
* bellagio macaroons recipe
* balabusta
* woman's queen size athletic clothing Toronto
Hey, I hope you found what you were looking for!
I get such a kick out of seeing some of the entries that lead you to me, I have to note them every few days. Some leave me grinning, others leave my face frozen in the shape of a big question mark with "Huh?" scrawled across my forehead.
Aside from the repeated "Boy Vey!" or "Tefillat HaDerech" searches, some of these have been the key to helping you find me and my pearlies.
* wisdom for hard-headed kids ("I need to hear some of that wisdom!")
* "where the wild things are" + "temporary tattoo"
* kippah bruce willis ("Forget about my blog, what do those 2 items have in common, I wonder?")
* Hebrew Greek words mean pearl
* beis hamikdash and stock market ("What I would sacrifice for a hot stock market tip!")
* pearl of wisdom images
* bellagio macaroons recipe
* balabusta
* woman's queen size athletic clothing Toronto
Hey, I hope you found what you were looking for!
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Sadness Speaks to Me
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Shavuah Tov, everyone. I hope those of you who observe Shabbos had a wonderful one, and those of you who don't, had a wonderful Saturday.
Many a time in my past posts, I've mentioned or hinted at my sensitivity. I have always had a very strong sense of compassion for the people around me, feeling what they were feeling: angst, melancholy, anger, sadness. But most of all, it is sadness that has always spoken to me.
I don't thrive on sad tidings, or emotional turmoil of others, but I do feel for people -- both friends or strangers -- when they are feeling low, whether they feel it for superficial reasons or for major crises. I try to let them know that I am there for them, if not in body, then in spirit. I share my thoughts and my words to help ease their personal pains; whether these words do anything at all, I don't know, but I want these people to know that I will listen, I will help if I'm able, I will offer suggestions if the person is seeking that; namely, I will be a friend or confidante if that is what they are needing.
Yes, I do take some things in my life for granted, but am trying to stray from that posture. After all, how can I do that, yet count my blessings at the same time? And believe me, I do count my blessings all the time.
In recognizing what problems, issues, family dynamics, etc. lay beyond mine, it is clear that I count my blessings even more -- thankful for family, thankful for health, thankful for a roof over our heads, thankful for a job, thankful for money in the bank, thankful for good friends and thankful for recognizing that we indeed have blessings.
It is most sad that sometimes it is only at the expense of someone else's sadness and despair that you recognize just how truly gifted and blessed you are. That someone else does not have to be a friend or someone close to you, but that someone does have a story to tell...and in reading that story, you realize that your own story doesn't amount to a hill of beans.
I've read some of those stories. I've felt my heart melt. I've cried those soulful tears. I've written those notes of compassion. I've let the people know that I, as a stranger, have been touched by their sadness, and I wish them some eventual peace of mind, peace of heart. I continue to read those stories. You should too. Then you might truly stop complaining about the small details in your life, look beyond and see that all you cherish sometimes is worth more than life itself.
Please read these stories, let your own heart melt and recognize that life and all it offers is never to be taken for granted.
www.seraphicpress.com
http://fiveyearslater.blogspot.com
http://glenh.blogspot.com
http://elie-expo.blogspot.com
Shavuah Tov, everyone. I hope those of you who observe Shabbos had a wonderful one, and those of you who don't, had a wonderful Saturday.
Many a time in my past posts, I've mentioned or hinted at my sensitivity. I have always had a very strong sense of compassion for the people around me, feeling what they were feeling: angst, melancholy, anger, sadness. But most of all, it is sadness that has always spoken to me.
I don't thrive on sad tidings, or emotional turmoil of others, but I do feel for people -- both friends or strangers -- when they are feeling low, whether they feel it for superficial reasons or for major crises. I try to let them know that I am there for them, if not in body, then in spirit. I share my thoughts and my words to help ease their personal pains; whether these words do anything at all, I don't know, but I want these people to know that I will listen, I will help if I'm able, I will offer suggestions if the person is seeking that; namely, I will be a friend or confidante if that is what they are needing.
Yes, I do take some things in my life for granted, but am trying to stray from that posture. After all, how can I do that, yet count my blessings at the same time? And believe me, I do count my blessings all the time.
In recognizing what problems, issues, family dynamics, etc. lay beyond mine, it is clear that I count my blessings even more -- thankful for family, thankful for health, thankful for a roof over our heads, thankful for a job, thankful for money in the bank, thankful for good friends and thankful for recognizing that we indeed have blessings.
It is most sad that sometimes it is only at the expense of someone else's sadness and despair that you recognize just how truly gifted and blessed you are. That someone else does not have to be a friend or someone close to you, but that someone does have a story to tell...and in reading that story, you realize that your own story doesn't amount to a hill of beans.
I've read some of those stories. I've felt my heart melt. I've cried those soulful tears. I've written those notes of compassion. I've let the people know that I, as a stranger, have been touched by their sadness, and I wish them some eventual peace of mind, peace of heart. I continue to read those stories. You should too. Then you might truly stop complaining about the small details in your life, look beyond and see that all you cherish sometimes is worth more than life itself.
Please read these stories, let your own heart melt and recognize that life and all it offers is never to be taken for granted.
www.seraphicpress.com
http://fiveyearslater.blogspot.com
http://glenh.blogspot.com
http://elie-expo.blogspot.com
Thursday, July 28, 2005
...You Don't Say...
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Recently a person whom I know from years ago, a younger sibling to a former classmate, had reason to talk to my husband in shul. She was arranging a Shabbos playdate for her daughter with mine and gladly passed her daughter off to my husband to spend lunch and the afternoon at the House of TorontoPearl.
My husband later took the little girl back to shul with him at mincha time, so that she could be reunited with her parent. Shabbos is out rather late here, and for a seven-year-old, who's had to walk a far distance to reach a new friend's house, "tired" was the word of the day.
The next day I received a phone call from the little girl's mother, thanking us profusely for hosting her daughter for so many hours. She went on to explain how she'd spotted my husband, knew he was with my daughter and that my daughter and her daughter were friends at day camp and that maybe they could get together later in the afternoon. My husband was the one to take the bull by the horns and put forth the invitation for lunch and the afternoon at our house and the suggestion of the "reunion" plans. This girl's mother said, "Your husband is very friendly. He's such a nice man."
You don't say...
I think I found my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow when I found him. When I first met him, he impressed me as friendly and genuine and warm. When friends and family met him, they considered him in the same way. When he and I were just engaged, the father-in-law of one of his bosses told me what a fine, menschlich young man I was involved with.
For people to see him the way I saw him meant a lot to me and told me a lot about him. For people to continue to see him in that way means a lot to me.
I could not have seen myself marry anyone BUT a nice and decent and warm and friendly guy like him. From his first day as a new father -- "How do I hold the baby?" -- to the seasoned father who does ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING for his wife and children and for the people around him -- I have never doubted my decision to marry this man, to give my heart to him and to grow old together with him.
In fact, I love him very much.
...You don't say...
*********************************
(If TorontoPearl's husband is reading this, just remember... we got engaged on August 22, 1993 and we got married on December 19, 1993 -- don't reverse the numbers!
I can just imagine you now, Toronto Pearl's husband. You're probably replying, "...You don't say...")
Recently a person whom I know from years ago, a younger sibling to a former classmate, had reason to talk to my husband in shul. She was arranging a Shabbos playdate for her daughter with mine and gladly passed her daughter off to my husband to spend lunch and the afternoon at the House of TorontoPearl.
My husband later took the little girl back to shul with him at mincha time, so that she could be reunited with her parent. Shabbos is out rather late here, and for a seven-year-old, who's had to walk a far distance to reach a new friend's house, "tired" was the word of the day.
The next day I received a phone call from the little girl's mother, thanking us profusely for hosting her daughter for so many hours. She went on to explain how she'd spotted my husband, knew he was with my daughter and that my daughter and her daughter were friends at day camp and that maybe they could get together later in the afternoon. My husband was the one to take the bull by the horns and put forth the invitation for lunch and the afternoon at our house and the suggestion of the "reunion" plans. This girl's mother said, "Your husband is very friendly. He's such a nice man."
You don't say...
I think I found my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow when I found him. When I first met him, he impressed me as friendly and genuine and warm. When friends and family met him, they considered him in the same way. When he and I were just engaged, the father-in-law of one of his bosses told me what a fine, menschlich young man I was involved with.
For people to see him the way I saw him meant a lot to me and told me a lot about him. For people to continue to see him in that way means a lot to me.
I could not have seen myself marry anyone BUT a nice and decent and warm and friendly guy like him. From his first day as a new father -- "How do I hold the baby?" -- to the seasoned father who does ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING for his wife and children and for the people around him -- I have never doubted my decision to marry this man, to give my heart to him and to grow old together with him.
In fact, I love him very much.
...You don't say...
*********************************
(If TorontoPearl's husband is reading this, just remember... we got engaged on August 22, 1993 and we got married on December 19, 1993 -- don't reverse the numbers!
I can just imagine you now, Toronto Pearl's husband. You're probably replying, "...You don't say...")
Seek... and Ye Shall Find
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These recent searches might've led you to Pearlies of Wisdom:
1) words of wisdom on death of a street bum
2) Boy Vey! (I've had many of those searches, as I once critiqued (read: criticized!) a book by that title)
3) "Match Made in Manhattan" blog
4) "traveler's prayer" English translation Jewish
5) Welcome back to school messages for parents
6) tadig hints (I realized after I saw this search that I'd written about a Persian rice dish, tadig, that I'd enjoyed while in L.A. last month)
I really want to know about #1 and #5.
I've not eulogized any street bums, here or abroad.
But I could use a welcome back to school message. However, I picture it goes something like this:
"Welcome back to tuition headaches, financial strains, school supply lists, pettiness on the playground, cattiness in the classroom, hell in the hallway, parental peer pressure, lots of professional-development-days- so-you'd-better-find-a-caregiver-for-your-children-for-all-those-days-that-they're-off-and-you-and-your-husband-are-working, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.... Isn't it nice to be back? "
These recent searches might've led you to Pearlies of Wisdom:
1) words of wisdom on death of a street bum
2) Boy Vey! (I've had many of those searches, as I once critiqued (read: criticized!) a book by that title)
3) "Match Made in Manhattan" blog
4) "traveler's prayer" English translation Jewish
5) Welcome back to school messages for parents
6) tadig hints (I realized after I saw this search that I'd written about a Persian rice dish, tadig, that I'd enjoyed while in L.A. last month)
I really want to know about #1 and #5.
I've not eulogized any street bums, here or abroad.
But I could use a welcome back to school message. However, I picture it goes something like this:
"Welcome back to tuition headaches, financial strains, school supply lists, pettiness on the playground, cattiness in the classroom, hell in the hallway, parental peer pressure, lots of professional-development-days- so-you'd-better-find-a-caregiver-for-your-children-for-all-those-days-that-they're-off-and-you-and-your-husband-are-working, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.... Isn't it nice to be back? "
Adventures in Conversation -- AND "French Rabbit"
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I was flipping through a magazine late at night when an ad caught my eye. It was for a brand of wine from Australia; I couldn't care less about the product, but the ad, an interesting one, associated the wine with "Adventures in Conversation." There was a kind of road map running across a 2-page spread, a foldout page, and scattered along the road map were points of reference. They got me thinking about what we do when we hold conversations, and here are the points of reference for you to think about.
Describe
Ponder
Question
Relate
Engage
Postulate
Advise
Contrast
Toast
Offend
Apologize
Suggest
React
Celebrate
Coax
Confide
Analyze
Savor
Listen
Speculate
Compare
Giggle
DIvulge
and lastly...
DISCOVER
Okay, now talk amongst yourselves....
***************************************
Today I received an e-mail ad for a new product put out by the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, a board that was so uncontrolled, that the countless numbers of people who work there were going to go on strike...but it somehow got bypassed last evening.
Anyhow this ad was for a new wine, packaged not in a bottle or flask, but in a TETRA PACK -- those recyclable cardboard boxes that hold milk or juice.
FIrstly, I wouldn't be buying any kind of alcohol, even a good wine, in a TETRA PACK.
Secondly, I wouldn't buy a wine product that's called "French Rabbit." It sounds much too gross for me, certainly not like the name of a wine. It sounds like a cocktail --"Yes, I'll have a French Rabbit...hold the cherry." Or like a very erotic French film: "Yeah, I went with my friends to see 'French Rabbit' at the Fox Cinema in the Beaches. Truffaut knew what he was doing when he made that film. I didn't even need the subtitles; I understood pretty much of what was happening from what I saw on-screen."
"French Rabbit" -- ewwwwww.......
I was flipping through a magazine late at night when an ad caught my eye. It was for a brand of wine from Australia; I couldn't care less about the product, but the ad, an interesting one, associated the wine with "Adventures in Conversation." There was a kind of road map running across a 2-page spread, a foldout page, and scattered along the road map were points of reference. They got me thinking about what we do when we hold conversations, and here are the points of reference for you to think about.
Describe
Ponder
Question
Relate
Engage
Postulate
Advise
Contrast
Toast
Offend
Apologize
Suggest
React
Celebrate
Coax
Confide
Analyze
Savor
Listen
Speculate
Compare
Giggle
DIvulge
and lastly...
DISCOVER
Okay, now talk amongst yourselves....
***************************************
Today I received an e-mail ad for a new product put out by the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, a board that was so uncontrolled, that the countless numbers of people who work there were going to go on strike...but it somehow got bypassed last evening.
Anyhow this ad was for a new wine, packaged not in a bottle or flask, but in a TETRA PACK -- those recyclable cardboard boxes that hold milk or juice.
FIrstly, I wouldn't be buying any kind of alcohol, even a good wine, in a TETRA PACK.
Secondly, I wouldn't buy a wine product that's called "French Rabbit." It sounds much too gross for me, certainly not like the name of a wine. It sounds like a cocktail --"Yes, I'll have a French Rabbit...hold the cherry." Or like a very erotic French film: "Yeah, I went with my friends to see 'French Rabbit' at the Fox Cinema in the Beaches. Truffaut knew what he was doing when he made that film. I didn't even need the subtitles; I understood pretty much of what was happening from what I saw on-screen."
"French Rabbit" -- ewwwwww.......
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Color My World
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Doctor Bean has just assisted in doing emergency surgery on my blog, patiently and wisely guiding me through a "colorotechnosis"-- helping to reinstate color into my life.
I thank you and my blog thanks you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
In his infinite wisdom, he has also helped me discover other buttons missing from my life that could be a definite turn-on, such as "font" and "size". (excuse my tongue-in-cheekiness)
I think I will put them all to good use.
Thank you, Doctor Bean. Payment is pending...
Doctor Bean has just assisted in doing emergency surgery on my blog, patiently and wisely guiding me through a "colorotechnosis"-- helping to reinstate color into my life.
I thank you and my blog thanks you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
In his infinite wisdom, he has also helped me discover other buttons missing from my life that could be a definite turn-on, such as "font" and "size". (excuse my tongue-in-cheekiness)
I think I will put them all to good use.
Thank you, Doctor Bean. Payment is pending...
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Shabbos Nachamu...or Life's Funny Like That
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Shabbos Nachamu holds some personal significance for me.
One summer(perhaps 1991) I was in NY's Catskill Mountains at a NY-based singles' Shabbos Nachamu weekend being held at the Concord Hotel. I'd traveled to NYC to be with a girl whom I'd become friends with the previous summer at a Niagara Falls singles' shabbaton. She'd planned ahead that we'd spend the weekend at the Concord and so she made plans through a NY-based group for the two of us, as well as for 3 or 4 of her friends that were going to be there too.
It was a fun Shabbos Nachamu weekend, even if I didn't meet the man of my dreams.
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1993. I've already been dating "the one" since December 1992 and we'd decided that some point in the summertime we'd get engaged. I spent Shabbos Nachamu 1993 at "the one's" mother's home, with "the one" being housed in a room down the hall. I recall when Shabbos was over and I called my parents to wish them a shavuah tov, my father got on the line and said "NU? So any news?" "No, Dad...don't worry, it'll happen." He told me that he remembers that back home (in Shtetlville)that people got engaged around this time. (Okay, so my father and mother, as well as I, only had to wait a few more weeks for that special moment.)
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1997. I'm married, and later in the afternoon I'm having contractions with baby # 2, so it's not really a relaxing Shabbos as the name depicts. We hope to hold out till Shabbos is over, but that doesn't happen. We have a prearranged taxi service with set fee and $ for the driver to pick up (we looked into the halachic aspects...just in case of this scenario), we go to the hospital, and baby daughter is born about 25 minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that, Shabbos Nachamu is over, and we happily get to call family members and let them know how we spent our Shabbos Nachamu.
In hindsight, perhaps we should have given our daughter the name "Nechama"/comfort, in honor of the day she was born. But even without that name, but with her other two beautiful given names, she is a continual comfort in our lives.
Thinking ahead, I hope you all have a wonderful and significant Shabbos Nachamu yourselves.
Shabbos Nachamu holds some personal significance for me.
One summer(perhaps 1991) I was in NY's Catskill Mountains at a NY-based singles' Shabbos Nachamu weekend being held at the Concord Hotel. I'd traveled to NYC to be with a girl whom I'd become friends with the previous summer at a Niagara Falls singles' shabbaton. She'd planned ahead that we'd spend the weekend at the Concord and so she made plans through a NY-based group for the two of us, as well as for 3 or 4 of her friends that were going to be there too.
It was a fun Shabbos Nachamu weekend, even if I didn't meet the man of my dreams.
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1993. I've already been dating "the one" since December 1992 and we'd decided that some point in the summertime we'd get engaged. I spent Shabbos Nachamu 1993 at "the one's" mother's home, with "the one" being housed in a room down the hall. I recall when Shabbos was over and I called my parents to wish them a shavuah tov, my father got on the line and said "NU? So any news?" "No, Dad...don't worry, it'll happen." He told me that he remembers that back home (in Shtetlville)that people got engaged around this time. (Okay, so my father and mother, as well as I, only had to wait a few more weeks for that special moment.)
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1997. I'm married, and later in the afternoon I'm having contractions with baby # 2, so it's not really a relaxing Shabbos as the name depicts. We hope to hold out till Shabbos is over, but that doesn't happen. We have a prearranged taxi service with set fee and $ for the driver to pick up (we looked into the halachic aspects...just in case of this scenario), we go to the hospital, and baby daughter is born about 25 minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that, Shabbos Nachamu is over, and we happily get to call family members and let them know how we spent our Shabbos Nachamu.
In hindsight, perhaps we should have given our daughter the name "Nechama"/comfort, in honor of the day she was born. But even without that name, but with her other two beautiful given names, she is a continual comfort in our lives.
Thinking ahead, I hope you all have a wonderful and significant Shabbos Nachamu yourselves.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Bloggers... A Class of Their Own
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"Class, I'm TorontoPearl, and today I will be your substitute teacher."
Boos and hisses, grumbles and mumbles can be heard.
"Where's the regular teacher? Why is she missing? Did she give you a hint as to what she's up to?" calls out Rochelle Krich.
"Oh, Miss Manners is off on a holiday from blogging for this afternoon."
"Does this mean we have to listen to you?" blurts out Jackbenimble.
"Oh, Jack, be quiet!" says Stacey. "Stop behaving like the monkey you are."
"Who's talking, Shmatta Queen, ex-Clevelander? Why should I be quiet -- U2 have to be quiet!"
"Class, class. I don't have very long to teach you this lesson, so please pay attention. Pick up your notepads and start writing this stuff down."
"Can I use my Treo?" asks Doctor Bean.
And ball-and-chain, his best friend, is sitting beside him in some fabulous red leather chair that she brought from home. "I'll let Doctor Bean take notes for me," she announces.
"And I think I'll use my new pen with its vibrating tip," adds Psycho Toddler.
"Hey, guys, just listen to the nice teacher. You all sound like a bunch of noisy bees in their hives," says Treppenwitz.
"Okay, thank you --"
"Psst, Robert! Can you keep a secret?" whispers Karen in the back row.
(Robert looks over his shoulder.) "Y-yeah, I-I can," he stutters anxiously.
"I think you love me," announces Karen.
"I love you!?" blurts out Robert, suddenly realizing that everyone has heard. He feels a headache coming on.
The class breaks out in songsong: "Robert loves Karen...and he's gonna marry her... Robert and Karen, sitting in a tree, talking about movies, and the Lincoln Square shul, he's gonna marry her when they're well out of school!"
"Silence, class. As I said, I'm not here for a long time, so please show some respect. Be polite. And save your comments for after class. Now, I'd like someone to name me some tips that you need to know about being a blogger."
A young man raises his hand.
"Yes, A Simple Jew?"
He speaks quietly but firmly. "One should use fewer words to have the most impact. One should speak from the heart, and if necessary and available, use citations."
"Very good. Now that young man, over there... Neil. Please answer the same question."
"One should certainly consider his or her audience. Pretend you're a teacher relating to students or a rabbi relating to his congregants. A few jokes can't hurt, either, nor can some references to classic TV shows and books."
"And you, Mr. Rubin. Put down that CD of Matisyahu; now is not music class. So what do you offer the class?"
"Um, LIFE is what you make it."
"I'll drink to that!" pipes up Air Time. "L'chaim! Hey, if we're drinking, maybe we should be eating too. How about some barbecued kishka and steaks?"
OrthoMom, Still Wonderin' and Just Passing Through start talking amongst themselves in the corner of the classroom.
"You three are being very rude. Avoid inside jokes -- you're alienating the rest of the class. Now, Mirty...where's sweet Mirty?"
"She went to Israel," advises Stacey. "We're gonna miss her for a couple of weeks, aren't we, guys?"
"Ye...s....s..." is heard in unison.
"Does anyone else have a comment to make about today's topic of discussion?"
"Do you people like outspokeness? I like outspokeness...I like honesty...I like to rant about my parents and the people around me. I'm very tongue-in-cheek, but I think people like that, too," offers up Yettabettaboo.
"Very, very good, class. I like what you had to say. Now we will have a very quick spelling lesson, so please take notes:
"Your does NOT MEAN you are. Your is the possessive form of something belonging to you. YOU'RE means you are. Get that straight.
"Its is the possessive form of something belonging to it. IT'S means it is.
"But I think the bell just rang, so I have to stop here for now. I didn't get to ask everyone their thoughts on blogging today-- sorry, Ink As Rain, Ralphie, and as well, there were a few students, such as Sara, missing from this session. No doubt Five Years Later we'll see a new stream of students interested in blogging. And if we're lucky, perhaps RenReb will be a guest speaker at the next class. Class dismissed...!"
"Class, I'm TorontoPearl, and today I will be your substitute teacher."
Boos and hisses, grumbles and mumbles can be heard.
"Where's the regular teacher? Why is she missing? Did she give you a hint as to what she's up to?" calls out Rochelle Krich.
"Oh, Miss Manners is off on a holiday from blogging for this afternoon."
"Does this mean we have to listen to you?" blurts out Jackbenimble.
"Oh, Jack, be quiet!" says Stacey. "Stop behaving like the monkey you are."
"Who's talking, Shmatta Queen, ex-Clevelander? Why should I be quiet -- U2 have to be quiet!"
"Class, class. I don't have very long to teach you this lesson, so please pay attention. Pick up your notepads and start writing this stuff down."
"Can I use my Treo?" asks Doctor Bean.
And ball-and-chain, his best friend, is sitting beside him in some fabulous red leather chair that she brought from home. "I'll let Doctor Bean take notes for me," she announces.
"And I think I'll use my new pen with its vibrating tip," adds Psycho Toddler.
"Hey, guys, just listen to the nice teacher. You all sound like a bunch of noisy bees in their hives," says Treppenwitz.
"Okay, thank you --"
"Psst, Robert! Can you keep a secret?" whispers Karen in the back row.
(Robert looks over his shoulder.) "Y-yeah, I-I can," he stutters anxiously.
"I think you love me," announces Karen.
"I love you!?" blurts out Robert, suddenly realizing that everyone has heard. He feels a headache coming on.
The class breaks out in songsong: "Robert loves Karen...and he's gonna marry her... Robert and Karen, sitting in a tree, talking about movies, and the Lincoln Square shul, he's gonna marry her when they're well out of school!"
"Silence, class. As I said, I'm not here for a long time, so please show some respect. Be polite. And save your comments for after class. Now, I'd like someone to name me some tips that you need to know about being a blogger."
A young man raises his hand.
"Yes, A Simple Jew?"
He speaks quietly but firmly. "One should use fewer words to have the most impact. One should speak from the heart, and if necessary and available, use citations."
"Very good. Now that young man, over there... Neil. Please answer the same question."
"One should certainly consider his or her audience. Pretend you're a teacher relating to students or a rabbi relating to his congregants. A few jokes can't hurt, either, nor can some references to classic TV shows and books."
"And you, Mr. Rubin. Put down that CD of Matisyahu; now is not music class. So what do you offer the class?"
"Um, LIFE is what you make it."
"I'll drink to that!" pipes up Air Time. "L'chaim! Hey, if we're drinking, maybe we should be eating too. How about some barbecued kishka and steaks?"
OrthoMom, Still Wonderin' and Just Passing Through start talking amongst themselves in the corner of the classroom.
"You three are being very rude. Avoid inside jokes -- you're alienating the rest of the class. Now, Mirty...where's sweet Mirty?"
"She went to Israel," advises Stacey. "We're gonna miss her for a couple of weeks, aren't we, guys?"
"Ye...s....s..." is heard in unison.
"Does anyone else have a comment to make about today's topic of discussion?"
"Do you people like outspokeness? I like outspokeness...I like honesty...I like to rant about my parents and the people around me. I'm very tongue-in-cheek, but I think people like that, too," offers up Yettabettaboo.
"Very, very good, class. I like what you had to say. Now we will have a very quick spelling lesson, so please take notes:
"Your does NOT MEAN you are. Your is the possessive form of something belonging to you. YOU'RE means you are. Get that straight.
"Its is the possessive form of something belonging to it. IT'S means it is.
"But I think the bell just rang, so I have to stop here for now. I didn't get to ask everyone their thoughts on blogging today-- sorry, Ink As Rain, Ralphie, and as well, there were a few students, such as Sara, missing from this session. No doubt Five Years Later we'll see a new stream of students interested in blogging. And if we're lucky, perhaps RenReb will be a guest speaker at the next class. Class dismissed...!"
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Transformers ... Take on a New Life
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It came to my attention recently that Steven Spielberg, who seems to have his hand in every pie in Hollywood, will be the executive producer of an upcoming movie based on the Transformers animated TV show, and Transformers toys.
These are exactly as named: robots who, when you twist and turn their body parts, become other objects -- eg. hiding behind the belly of a large robot might be a fire engine or a driver's head in a race car. It allows for hours of fun for young children and some adults, as well.
My oldest son, now 10, has had a few of these in his possession, and once in a while when I'd be scouring in his toy collection for something else, perhaps a missing Legos piece, I'd find a small Transformer. I'd sit there -- transfixed! -- as I'd make discoveries within this toy while manipulating it.
When I read today about the upcoming movie, I couldn't help but be reminded of a post I read late last summer on Seraphic Secret. Robert Avrech had talked about hosting Shabbat guests who were there for a Shabbaton, and how they'd been attracted to Robert's Emmy Award, as well as to the collection of Transformers that Ariel's room housed. He and Karen were somehow torn, feeling the need to perhaps let one of the Shabbaton's participants take one of the toys away with him, yet wanting to maintain their precious memories of their son and the collection he was so fond of, therefore not parting with them.
When I was in L.A. last month, I asked Robert if I could see Ariel's room; he gladly showed it to me and I saw all the seforim and all the young boy's and young adult's personal interests displayed, including the beloved Transformers.
Robert and Karen's sweet, young nephew, Yoni, visiting from Israel, had played with Ariel's Transformers throughout Shabbos. He, too, had been transfixed by them and the different personas they took on.
When Shabbos was over, Havdalah was done and extended family members and I were dispersing for the night, I saw Karen ask Yoni if he'd like to have one of the Transformers, telling the boy this particular Transformer's name and letting him know that his cousin Ariel had enjoyed the toy immensely. Robert stood nearby and reiterated that Ariel had a wonderful time playing with these toys.
Yoni's face lit up with this gift, this gift that would travel with the boy from California, to New York and back to Efrat, Israel. This gift that truly had been a gift from the heart.
Transformers... They have a way of transforming people, as well.
It came to my attention recently that Steven Spielberg, who seems to have his hand in every pie in Hollywood, will be the executive producer of an upcoming movie based on the Transformers animated TV show, and Transformers toys.
These are exactly as named: robots who, when you twist and turn their body parts, become other objects -- eg. hiding behind the belly of a large robot might be a fire engine or a driver's head in a race car. It allows for hours of fun for young children and some adults, as well.
My oldest son, now 10, has had a few of these in his possession, and once in a while when I'd be scouring in his toy collection for something else, perhaps a missing Legos piece, I'd find a small Transformer. I'd sit there -- transfixed! -- as I'd make discoveries within this toy while manipulating it.
When I read today about the upcoming movie, I couldn't help but be reminded of a post I read late last summer on Seraphic Secret. Robert Avrech had talked about hosting Shabbat guests who were there for a Shabbaton, and how they'd been attracted to Robert's Emmy Award, as well as to the collection of Transformers that Ariel's room housed. He and Karen were somehow torn, feeling the need to perhaps let one of the Shabbaton's participants take one of the toys away with him, yet wanting to maintain their precious memories of their son and the collection he was so fond of, therefore not parting with them.
When I was in L.A. last month, I asked Robert if I could see Ariel's room; he gladly showed it to me and I saw all the seforim and all the young boy's and young adult's personal interests displayed, including the beloved Transformers.
Robert and Karen's sweet, young nephew, Yoni, visiting from Israel, had played with Ariel's Transformers throughout Shabbos. He, too, had been transfixed by them and the different personas they took on.
When Shabbos was over, Havdalah was done and extended family members and I were dispersing for the night, I saw Karen ask Yoni if he'd like to have one of the Transformers, telling the boy this particular Transformer's name and letting him know that his cousin Ariel had enjoyed the toy immensely. Robert stood nearby and reiterated that Ariel had a wonderful time playing with these toys.
Yoni's face lit up with this gift, this gift that would travel with the boy from California, to New York and back to Efrat, Israel. This gift that truly had been a gift from the heart.
Transformers... They have a way of transforming people, as well.
I Need Some Color in My (Blogging) Life
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Okay, you masters of your own domains, could you please advise me on how to do something with Blogger.
When I first started my blog back in December, I had the color feature on my basic page template, alongside bf, itals, spell check, etc. I can't recall what button I hit that I shouldn't have, but I did hit something, and the color disappeared from my life.
I'd loved the color, which I could use for emphasis or creative tactics in my posts. And I've missed it ever since it went missing in action many months ago.
It's time to get that tool back. So could you please tell me how/where to place it back on my open blogger page masthead, so that I can begin to feature color in my posts?
Without that color button, I'm feeling blue, and a bit green with envy when I see other bloggers featuring color in their posts.
Help me get Technicolor (TM) back into my (blogging) life!
Okay, you masters of your own domains, could you please advise me on how to do something with Blogger.
When I first started my blog back in December, I had the color feature on my basic page template, alongside bf, itals, spell check, etc. I can't recall what button I hit that I shouldn't have, but I did hit something, and the color disappeared from my life.
I'd loved the color, which I could use for emphasis or creative tactics in my posts. And I've missed it ever since it went missing in action many months ago.
It's time to get that tool back. So could you please tell me how/where to place it back on my open blogger page masthead, so that I can begin to feature color in my posts?
Without that color button, I'm feeling blue, and a bit green with envy when I see other bloggers featuring color in their posts.
Help me get Technicolor (TM) back into my (blogging) life!
Shabbos: The Long & Short of It
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(cross-posted on THE JEWISH CONNECTION)
I like my Shabbos "shlufs" -- my two to three-hour afternoon naps...the time to catch up on all the sleep that I lost out on when I was at the computer late at night during the week.
Problem is: sometimes I get to nap, other times I don't.
Sometimes it's too busy in our household, with the children having guests, with my own children who have no guests needing to be entertained, with the parents having guests, with our family invited out, with our Shabbos afternoon outings to the nearby park, where the children play baseball or on the playground equipment and the adults catch up on the news of the week.
In our community, which is a bit widespread, we live at the top end, thus making it somewhat of a hike from shul to visit the TorontoPearl family. I grew up with a 25 minute walk to shul, so it's not a big stretch for me, but sometimes my two youngest children feel that they're on a walkathon...without anyone having sponsored them! It's a pleasure for them...and me...when they tote along friends from shul for lunch and for a Shabbos play date. The route home doesn't seem as long in the company of good and cherished friends.
When we adults invite friends for Shabbos lunch, we have to think long and hard over whom to invite: Will they make the walk? Will they want to stay till Shabbos is out, if they find it too long a walk back home?
I'm certainly not always in the entertaining mood (remember, I like those long Shabbos afternoon naps) but when we do host, it's such a nice thing. My husband and I work side by side in the kitchen to prepare the talked-about menu, with me often his sous-chef and he taking the lead. But this joint effort results in a lovely-set table, a delicious menu, and the feeling that "we're in this together!"
Sometimes he gets the compliments directed to him for things I made, sometimes I get the compliments for things made by him. We share the compliments, the spotlight and the company.
Today's company did make the walk even though the adults are plagued by knee joint problems and the like. These were people whom I don't see all that often, but who, when we do host them or if we end up at their Shabbos table, have a wonderful, time together. We are equally blessed that two of our sons are good friends.
Kiddush/Shabbos lunch became an afternoon stay. To hell with my nap, I thought, I'm really enjoying this conversation and the presence of these people. The afternoon stay became Seudat Shlishit, followed by the end of Shabbos. I even jokingly invited the couple and their kids to stay over for breakfast...as they were on such a roll.
But of course, I was being cheeky, as Sunday (it's now already Sunday as I type this) is a fast day.
Good food, friendly and down-to-earth families, hearty laughs, good conversation, lovely zmirot, and children running in and out of the room...help make "this day of rest" what it is: a pleasure.
(cross-posted on THE JEWISH CONNECTION)
I like my Shabbos "shlufs" -- my two to three-hour afternoon naps...the time to catch up on all the sleep that I lost out on when I was at the computer late at night during the week.
Problem is: sometimes I get to nap, other times I don't.
Sometimes it's too busy in our household, with the children having guests, with my own children who have no guests needing to be entertained, with the parents having guests, with our family invited out, with our Shabbos afternoon outings to the nearby park, where the children play baseball or on the playground equipment and the adults catch up on the news of the week.
In our community, which is a bit widespread, we live at the top end, thus making it somewhat of a hike from shul to visit the TorontoPearl family. I grew up with a 25 minute walk to shul, so it's not a big stretch for me, but sometimes my two youngest children feel that they're on a walkathon...without anyone having sponsored them! It's a pleasure for them...and me...when they tote along friends from shul for lunch and for a Shabbos play date. The route home doesn't seem as long in the company of good and cherished friends.
When we adults invite friends for Shabbos lunch, we have to think long and hard over whom to invite: Will they make the walk? Will they want to stay till Shabbos is out, if they find it too long a walk back home?
I'm certainly not always in the entertaining mood (remember, I like those long Shabbos afternoon naps) but when we do host, it's such a nice thing. My husband and I work side by side in the kitchen to prepare the talked-about menu, with me often his sous-chef and he taking the lead. But this joint effort results in a lovely-set table, a delicious menu, and the feeling that "we're in this together!"
Sometimes he gets the compliments directed to him for things I made, sometimes I get the compliments for things made by him. We share the compliments, the spotlight and the company.
Today's company did make the walk even though the adults are plagued by knee joint problems and the like. These were people whom I don't see all that often, but who, when we do host them or if we end up at their Shabbos table, have a wonderful, time together. We are equally blessed that two of our sons are good friends.
Kiddush/Shabbos lunch became an afternoon stay. To hell with my nap, I thought, I'm really enjoying this conversation and the presence of these people. The afternoon stay became Seudat Shlishit, followed by the end of Shabbos. I even jokingly invited the couple and their kids to stay over for breakfast...as they were on such a roll.
But of course, I was being cheeky, as Sunday (it's now already Sunday as I type this) is a fast day.
Good food, friendly and down-to-earth families, hearty laughs, good conversation, lovely zmirot, and children running in and out of the room...help make "this day of rest" what it is: a pleasure.
Friday, July 22, 2005
What's Up with AOL -- Part 2
Blogroll Me!
Hey, Randi, you got one message from me, but the second was delayed, delayed and then unable to be delivered.
Unable to deliver message to the following recipients, due to being unable to
connect successfully to the destination mail server.
Stupid AOL takes several days to try to relay a message and then throws it back in my face.
BTW, I'm still waiting for Rachel (thurbie18) to see my messages and respond.
Am I the only one who's having troubles with your e-mail addresses?
Hey, Randi, you got one message from me, but the second was delayed, delayed and then unable to be delivered.
Unable to deliver message to the following recipients, due to being unable to
connect successfully to the destination mail server.
Stupid AOL takes several days to try to relay a message and then throws it back in my face.
BTW, I'm still waiting for Rachel (thurbie18) to see my messages and respond.
Am I the only one who's having troubles with your e-mail addresses?
Mezuzah: The Straight and Narrow of It
Blogroll Me!
(cross-posted on The Jewish Connection)
I grew up in a household that had brass and olivewood mezuzot on its doorframes; some were old-looking, the likes of which you don't see too much anymore, others were more modern. But they were there and they sat at an angle, staring down at us, beckoning us to kiss them, or daring us not to.
Unfortunately, I wasn't always heeding the mezuzah's call for a kiss. But for sure upon traveling, I'd be reminded by my father, "Kiss the mezuzah when you leave the house." Those words were like a mantra, the action became a habit. Kiss the mezuzah before taking a trip; make extra sure to kiss it when you step back over your familiar and welcoming threshhold. Thank G-d that you were able to go in peace, and come home in peace, and be able to kiss the mezuzah once again. That was not said to me, but that was indeed the silent message.
When I married, I lived in an apartment for about a year and then we bought our first home. It was not considered a starter home, and thus was a considerable size with four levels. When the sale went through, one of my earliest thoughts was: "How many mezuzot will we need for this house?" It wasn't so much the mezuzah cover I was worried about, it was the klafs, the parchments, which can be costly once you have a number of mezuzot. That house, we decided, had twenty-one doorposts that would need to be covered, both literally and figuratively. The great debate came with the garage: Do we put one on, do we not? The "not" won out at that time.
It was a great pleasure over the years in that house to raise three children and train them in Yiddishkeit, holding them solidly in our arms as we positioned them close to the mezuzot so they could learn to kiss them. Each year the children grew taller and closer to the mezuzot...in more ways than the obvious.
When we moved homes a couple years ago, we decided to "straighten out our lives" by changing our mezuzot from sitting on an angle to sitting straight and tall. After all, this is the Sefardic minhag, custom, and although my husband was raised very Ashkenazic, he is Sefardic, and as I married him, I too am Sefardic.
These days there is a mezuzah on both our garage doors; these days, my children take great pleasure in being able to reach and touch the home's mezuzot by themselves; these days I look at our many mezuzot and think, "Don't forget to kiss the mezuzah on the way in...or out...from anywhere."
(cross-posted on The Jewish Connection)
I grew up in a household that had brass and olivewood mezuzot on its doorframes; some were old-looking, the likes of which you don't see too much anymore, others were more modern. But they were there and they sat at an angle, staring down at us, beckoning us to kiss them, or daring us not to.
Unfortunately, I wasn't always heeding the mezuzah's call for a kiss. But for sure upon traveling, I'd be reminded by my father, "Kiss the mezuzah when you leave the house." Those words were like a mantra, the action became a habit. Kiss the mezuzah before taking a trip; make extra sure to kiss it when you step back over your familiar and welcoming threshhold. Thank G-d that you were able to go in peace, and come home in peace, and be able to kiss the mezuzah once again. That was not said to me, but that was indeed the silent message.
When I married, I lived in an apartment for about a year and then we bought our first home. It was not considered a starter home, and thus was a considerable size with four levels. When the sale went through, one of my earliest thoughts was: "How many mezuzot will we need for this house?" It wasn't so much the mezuzah cover I was worried about, it was the klafs, the parchments, which can be costly once you have a number of mezuzot. That house, we decided, had twenty-one doorposts that would need to be covered, both literally and figuratively. The great debate came with the garage: Do we put one on, do we not? The "not" won out at that time.
It was a great pleasure over the years in that house to raise three children and train them in Yiddishkeit, holding them solidly in our arms as we positioned them close to the mezuzot so they could learn to kiss them. Each year the children grew taller and closer to the mezuzot...in more ways than the obvious.
When we moved homes a couple years ago, we decided to "straighten out our lives" by changing our mezuzot from sitting on an angle to sitting straight and tall. After all, this is the Sefardic minhag, custom, and although my husband was raised very Ashkenazic, he is Sefardic, and as I married him, I too am Sefardic.
These days there is a mezuzah on both our garage doors; these days, my children take great pleasure in being able to reach and touch the home's mezuzot by themselves; these days I look at our many mezuzot and think, "Don't forget to kiss the mezuzah on the way in...or out...from anywhere."
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