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When I was a kid, and I'd ask my father, "Are you speaking German or Yiddish?" he'd always answer, "I'm speaking Yiddish, Yuddish and Yoodish."
I never learned Yiddish formally but often heard my dad speak it with family and friends; I heard my mother and father speak German, too, between themselves and sometimes I was able to differentiate between the two languages...usually based on the accompanying body language.
My ear tuned itself to the language and if given the opportunity, I'd sometimes throw around a sentence or two.
Although some might think Yiddish to be guttural and archaic, I've always loved hearing the "mamaloshen", whether it was a Litvischer Yiddish or a Polnyisher Yiddish. The language embodies so much of Ashkenazic Jewish cultural history and has a richness all its own that transcends time.
I was recently asked about my knowledge of Yiddish because a business contact of mine knows of a freelance copy editing job -- work on a humorous book featuring Yiddish curses and expressions. Oh, that would be a great and fun challenge for me. And think of all the new curses I might come away with and be able to embody in a post or two...
So if I get this gig, great! If I don't, it's "nisht geferlech." (not the worst)
In the meantime, everyone, "zei gesundt!" (be well/healthy!)
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Monday, August 22, 2005
Oh My Goodness -- I'm a (Kosher) Blog Hog!
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Oh my goodness; today I noticed that I display a rather nasty tendency in the blogging world: I'm a "blog hog"!
I don't know if that phrase exists already, but if not, consider it mine. It means that I'm hogging comment cyberspace. Not that I do it all the time, not that I do it on every blog that I read and choose to comment on, but certainly I've found that I make some comment that has its own way of directing its spotlight on me, rather than exclusively on the blogger's post.
One would think that I don't have my own soapbox on which to stand and recite or rant or display or point out, when in fact I do. But sometimes I'm moved to make a comment elsewhere that relates to the post at hand, but suddenly takes on a life of its own as I put myself and my experiences into the comment. Am I taking something away from the blogger, or am I enhancing what he/she has said? I wonder.
I really don't like this quality and dislike that it's reared its ugly head; I've talked before about not being egotistical and disliking egoistes...so why does it appear that I've seemingly joined that group?
Maybe you'll comment and say that a comments forum is for opinions and speaking your mind; comment threads often take tangents and eventually steer themselves back to the original topic. But like anything else in life, there's a wrong way and a right way to do things. Perhaps I've taken the wrong way...?
Oh my goodness; today I noticed that I display a rather nasty tendency in the blogging world: I'm a "blog hog"!
I don't know if that phrase exists already, but if not, consider it mine. It means that I'm hogging comment cyberspace. Not that I do it all the time, not that I do it on every blog that I read and choose to comment on, but certainly I've found that I make some comment that has its own way of directing its spotlight on me, rather than exclusively on the blogger's post.
One would think that I don't have my own soapbox on which to stand and recite or rant or display or point out, when in fact I do. But sometimes I'm moved to make a comment elsewhere that relates to the post at hand, but suddenly takes on a life of its own as I put myself and my experiences into the comment. Am I taking something away from the blogger, or am I enhancing what he/she has said? I wonder.
I really don't like this quality and dislike that it's reared its ugly head; I've talked before about not being egotistical and disliking egoistes...so why does it appear that I've seemingly joined that group?
Maybe you'll comment and say that a comments forum is for opinions and speaking your mind; comment threads often take tangents and eventually steer themselves back to the original topic. But like anything else in life, there's a wrong way and a right way to do things. Perhaps I've taken the wrong way...?
Sunday, August 21, 2005
I REALLY Do Thank G-d for My Blessings
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Growing up, I didn't light Shabbos candles unless my parents were on holiday and I was the only female in the house. But all the years I was used to watching my mother light the Shabbos candles and make the bracha silently. I don't recall her lingering over the candles.
When I was in my twenties and staying over for Shabbos at single girlfriends' who were living on their own, I'd watch them light the candles, make the bracha and linger, eyes closed, hands covering them. Once I politely asked what sort of thoughts were running through my girlfriend's head, ie. why she hesitated so long. She explained that she was thinking her private thoughts, among them that G-d should help her find an appropriate husband. I lit the candles at that friend's place, but did not linger over the candles. I figured that when the time was right, I'd have my appropriate match. [ooo...in rereading this, I noticed the unintentional pun: candles/match]
And when that appropriate match did arrive, and I did marry, and I did light two candles every week and every Yom Tov in my own home, I did linger there, eyes closed, hands covering them. In the first couple of years, I thanked G-d for my husband; then we added a candlestick and I added my son's name to that list; then we added a candlestick and I added my daughter's name to that list; then we added a candlestick and I added my other son's name to that list. Then I added every family member -- parents, siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews -- to that mental list of thanks, and the names of friends or family members that needed their own brachot.
This ritual is my personal way of saying a bracha [over Shabbos/Yom Tov candles] while at the same time thanking G-d for the brachot he has granted me. My children have not yet questioned why I linger at the candlesticks for a few moments longer...but if they do, I'll know what to answer...
...because SHOW & TELL is as much a part of my life as it is to a preschooler. And as it has been said, "Everything I ever needed to know I learned in kindergarten."
Growing up, I didn't light Shabbos candles unless my parents were on holiday and I was the only female in the house. But all the years I was used to watching my mother light the Shabbos candles and make the bracha silently. I don't recall her lingering over the candles.
When I was in my twenties and staying over for Shabbos at single girlfriends' who were living on their own, I'd watch them light the candles, make the bracha and linger, eyes closed, hands covering them. Once I politely asked what sort of thoughts were running through my girlfriend's head, ie. why she hesitated so long. She explained that she was thinking her private thoughts, among them that G-d should help her find an appropriate husband. I lit the candles at that friend's place, but did not linger over the candles. I figured that when the time was right, I'd have my appropriate match. [ooo...in rereading this, I noticed the unintentional pun: candles/match]
And when that appropriate match did arrive, and I did marry, and I did light two candles every week and every Yom Tov in my own home, I did linger there, eyes closed, hands covering them. In the first couple of years, I thanked G-d for my husband; then we added a candlestick and I added my son's name to that list; then we added a candlestick and I added my daughter's name to that list; then we added a candlestick and I added my other son's name to that list. Then I added every family member -- parents, siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews -- to that mental list of thanks, and the names of friends or family members that needed their own brachot.
This ritual is my personal way of saying a bracha [over Shabbos/Yom Tov candles] while at the same time thanking G-d for the brachot he has granted me. My children have not yet questioned why I linger at the candlesticks for a few moments longer...but if they do, I'll know what to answer...
...because SHOW & TELL is as much a part of my life as it is to a preschooler. And as it has been said, "Everything I ever needed to know I learned in kindergarten."
Emotionally Saturated
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If I were a sponge that you were to squeeze just about now, tears would be falling endlessly from that sponge.
It has been a tough and trying weekend.
Friday's weather that I blogged about started that deluge; the very close friend that I mentioned in my last post who popped in during the storm to use our telephone, lost his mother within a couple hours after he came here. When he stopped here, he'd been trying to make his way to his mother's to give her a painkiller because she was suffering the pain of end stages of cancer -- it was coming fast and strong.
He did eventually make it to his mother with his wife and son, and about 1/2 hour before Shabbos came in she took her last heavy breath. He'd sang "Shalom Aleichem" for her and "Aishet Chayil" and kissed her Gut Shabbos, and within minutes she was gone. Everybody has their own memorable version of Shabbos Nachamu; unfortunately, this was my friend's version.
We had my friend's son over Shabbos and much of the day today, until after the funeral. This little 4 1/2 year old boy had been told by his mother that his "Savta was now with Hashem" but we didn't know just how much he understood of that. And when the little boy said, "My savta and sabah live beside your savta," my youngest piped up: "NO, YOUR SAVTA'S DEAD!!" There was a long pause as my husband and I turned to each other, wondering what to say, but the little boy said it for us: "She's with Hashem now." And when my little one asked, "Why?" the boy said, "'Cause she's dead!"
I'm physically, mentally and emotionally sapped after a weekend of dealing with the ins and outs of curbing discussions around a curious child who'd lost his grandmother but didn't quite "get" what that meant; after dealing with all the mitzvot my family could do to help our friends prepare for shiva; after contacting back and forth other friends and acquaintances re. funeral preparations, shiva preparations, childcare preparations.
Today we tried to hit two birds with one stone: we wanted to fulfill the mitzva of "Bikur Cholim" (visiting the sick) and visited a sister-in-law's father, but he wasn't in his hospital room at the time and we couldn't find him on the premises of the nursing home/hospital. And then an hour later we went to a cemetery for a graveside service, and then to a shiva house.
Really, who should I be to complain? I thank G-d for my blessings, and will try to help my friend and his family as much as I and my family can. It is lovely to do mitzvot, but yes, they can and often do take their toll on people...
May we all share in simchas!
If I were a sponge that you were to squeeze just about now, tears would be falling endlessly from that sponge.
It has been a tough and trying weekend.
Friday's weather that I blogged about started that deluge; the very close friend that I mentioned in my last post who popped in during the storm to use our telephone, lost his mother within a couple hours after he came here. When he stopped here, he'd been trying to make his way to his mother's to give her a painkiller because she was suffering the pain of end stages of cancer -- it was coming fast and strong.
He did eventually make it to his mother with his wife and son, and about 1/2 hour before Shabbos came in she took her last heavy breath. He'd sang "Shalom Aleichem" for her and "Aishet Chayil" and kissed her Gut Shabbos, and within minutes she was gone. Everybody has their own memorable version of Shabbos Nachamu; unfortunately, this was my friend's version.
We had my friend's son over Shabbos and much of the day today, until after the funeral. This little 4 1/2 year old boy had been told by his mother that his "Savta was now with Hashem" but we didn't know just how much he understood of that. And when the little boy said, "My savta and sabah live beside your savta," my youngest piped up: "NO, YOUR SAVTA'S DEAD!!" There was a long pause as my husband and I turned to each other, wondering what to say, but the little boy said it for us: "She's with Hashem now." And when my little one asked, "Why?" the boy said, "'Cause she's dead!"
I'm physically, mentally and emotionally sapped after a weekend of dealing with the ins and outs of curbing discussions around a curious child who'd lost his grandmother but didn't quite "get" what that meant; after dealing with all the mitzvot my family could do to help our friends prepare for shiva; after contacting back and forth other friends and acquaintances re. funeral preparations, shiva preparations, childcare preparations.
Today we tried to hit two birds with one stone: we wanted to fulfill the mitzva of "Bikur Cholim" (visiting the sick) and visited a sister-in-law's father, but he wasn't in his hospital room at the time and we couldn't find him on the premises of the nursing home/hospital. And then an hour later we went to a cemetery for a graveside service, and then to a shiva house.
Really, who should I be to complain? I thank G-d for my blessings, and will try to help my friend and his family as much as I and my family can. It is lovely to do mitzvot, but yes, they can and often do take their toll on people...
May we all share in simchas!
"...Cold Black Waters, Keep on Rollin'..."
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On Friday afternoon I thought Judgement Day had arrived. The heavens opened, and the rain fell...and fell...and fell.... Pounding the roof, pounding the pavement, slapping against the windows.
I thanked G-d that I was already home because it would have been hellish to be out of doors in that weather.
Hailstones fell from the sky, landing on our balcony, on our deck, pinging heavily against the front door and windows. The lights flickered several times...went out along with all power systems...came on a few seconds later. After readjusting the clock and resetting my stove and oven (I hadn't yet cooked for Shabbat), a few moments later the power went off again.
My children were rather distressed; they'd heard me only a short while earlier listen to the news and repeat after the announcer, "Tornado warning in effect for the Greater Toronto area..." My little one panicked and said, "Are we going to be picked up and land somewhere else?" Oldest son comforted him by piping up, "This isn't THE WIZARD OF OZ." The problem was that at Universal Studios in June, my kids had been at a "reality" display of the Spielberg film "Twister" and thus knew what could happen. I appeased them and said it wasn't supposed to be in our immediate area and not to worry. But it didn't help that I was telling them this with the lights out, with the pounding rain and hailstones, and with the storm sewer in front of our house backed up halfway up our driveway and halfway up the street.
We watched as cars tried to maneuver the neighborhood streets and couldn't because the waters were rushing and knee-deep. A friend stopped at our house; he'd been out and couldn't get through many of the streets, his cell phone wasn't getting reception and he needed to use our land line.
Yes, eventually the waters receded, the sun weakly poked its head through the clouds and the storm was gone. (but it left many basements with water damage and some severe flooding)
My husband opened the front door and brightly announced: "Yup...just saw a dove fly by with an olive branch in its mouth." I interjected: "And there was no ark at the curbside...?"
On Friday afternoon I thought Judgement Day had arrived. The heavens opened, and the rain fell...and fell...and fell.... Pounding the roof, pounding the pavement, slapping against the windows.
I thanked G-d that I was already home because it would have been hellish to be out of doors in that weather.
Hailstones fell from the sky, landing on our balcony, on our deck, pinging heavily against the front door and windows. The lights flickered several times...went out along with all power systems...came on a few seconds later. After readjusting the clock and resetting my stove and oven (I hadn't yet cooked for Shabbat), a few moments later the power went off again.
My children were rather distressed; they'd heard me only a short while earlier listen to the news and repeat after the announcer, "Tornado warning in effect for the Greater Toronto area..." My little one panicked and said, "Are we going to be picked up and land somewhere else?" Oldest son comforted him by piping up, "This isn't THE WIZARD OF OZ." The problem was that at Universal Studios in June, my kids had been at a "reality" display of the Spielberg film "Twister" and thus knew what could happen. I appeased them and said it wasn't supposed to be in our immediate area and not to worry. But it didn't help that I was telling them this with the lights out, with the pounding rain and hailstones, and with the storm sewer in front of our house backed up halfway up our driveway and halfway up the street.
We watched as cars tried to maneuver the neighborhood streets and couldn't because the waters were rushing and knee-deep. A friend stopped at our house; he'd been out and couldn't get through many of the streets, his cell phone wasn't getting reception and he needed to use our land line.
Yes, eventually the waters receded, the sun weakly poked its head through the clouds and the storm was gone. (but it left many basements with water damage and some severe flooding)
My husband opened the front door and brightly announced: "Yup...just saw a dove fly by with an olive branch in its mouth." I interjected: "And there was no ark at the curbside...?"
Thursday, August 18, 2005
M.'s Words Are Powerful
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Please link to Ink as Rain, M's beautiful and eloquent blog. Her latest post will definitely move you.
Please link to Ink as Rain, M's beautiful and eloquent blog. Her latest post will definitely move you.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
From Riches to Shmattas
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Here's another piece I wrote many, many, many years ago, and just dug up. I haven't read it in years, and will be reading as I type it. Hope the humor is still fresh.
From Riches to Shmattas
By: A. Shmatta
Wipe, wipe, wipe. Shine, shine, shine. Polish, polish, polish.
Oh, I'm so tired. Please let me rest awhile. Mrs. Baumgarten continues to rub me over her silver wine cups. Oooo, I'm so black and streaked. How will I ever get white again?
Mrs. Baumgarten tosses me onto the counter the moment the phone rings. She rushes to answer it. "Hullo? Ida Kaplan, how are you? How's Morris? How're the grandchildren?" She rattles on and on, finally giving me a chance to rest. She didn't place me in a very comfortable position however, so I'm lying her all scrunched up.
These days, my home is in the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink (where I can at least stay warm while hanging over the hot water pipes), and I only get washed about once a month. But you should know that not long ago, I was something. I was important! I was a white, cotton, fleece-lined sweatshirt and belonged to Selma, the youngest Baumgarten daughter. And not just any old white, cotton, fleece-lined sweatshirt either; I was a Camp Beverly Hills sweatshirt.
Was I ever thankful when three years ago, someone came into the boutique, ruffled through the rainbow-colored sweatshirts, and salvaged me from the bottom of the pile. Mmm, I don't look so bad, just a bit rumpled, I thought to myself as the teenager unfolded me and held me up against her chest as she looked in the mirror. The body contact felt good -- I'd lacked contact for a few weeks since that lady had finished sewing me in the factory. Was I thrilled when the girl told the saleslady, "Okay, charge this white one to my dad. Here's his credit card."
I was very popular in those days and got lots of compliments from Selma's crowd. "Wow, what a great sweatshirt. Selma, do you think I could borrow your 'sweat' sometime?"
Selma and I became bosom buddies. She took me nearly everywhere she went and I got to see a lot of sights -- the high school gym, the school library, some good movies, and even the back seat of an old, beat-up '69 Chevy. Spain last summer was great and California during spring break was even wilder. Some unpleasant places I came into contact with and dreaded were cluttered gym lockers and the dirty clothes hamper.
I also lived for a while with Brian Green, one of Selma's many boyfriends. He gave her a gold bracelet, and she in turn gave him her favorite sweatshirt -- that's me! Life with Brian wasn't so splendid. I often had to tag along to football games and be left alone on the bleachers. Once in a while, Muffy, Brian's terrier, started up with me. We'd get into some pretty heavy arm wrestling. She thought it was a ball. I didn't!
Lucky for me, the relationship lasted only a couple of months. Brian and Selma broke up and returned each other's love tokens. So, back I was with Selma, a little out of shape and showing a few more wrinkles, but still in style nonetheless.
At first, Selma was excited to have me back, but it soon became evident that there was competition in my life.
On a shopping outing one day, Selma, with me hugging her shoulders, stepped into the same boutique where we had first become acquainted (ie. where she had picked me up). She wasn't looking for anything in particular, but that didn't matter. No sooner were we in the store, than Selma spotted a neon banana-yellow sweatshirt. "Oh, how chic!" she exclaimed. "I just have to buy this Fiorucci. It'll add so much color to my wardrobe."
I hung there, peeking over Selma's shoulder and silently pleading, No, no. You don't want a Fiorucci. Fiorucci isn't in style. Camp Beverly Hills garb is!
Selma voiced her opinion to the saleslady as she pulled out her father's infamous credit card. "I'm going to be the first one in my crowd with a 'Fio' sweatshirt. If the girls see that I have one, they'll all want one too."
The next thing I knew, I was being stuffed into the Boutique La Moda bag, while the Fiorucci sweatshirt took its place around Selma's shoulders. Was I angry and jealous! Selma walked home, swinging the bag freely in her hand, so I was feeling pretty claustrophobic and nauseated within my plastic prison by the time we got home.
Selma laid me and my archrival side by side on her bed and went to call her friends to tell them of her latest purchase. The Fiorucci tried to make conversation with me, but I was in no mood to try to break through the language and cultural barrier.
Selma would still take me with her when she'd go out, but less frequently and to fewer places. I'd sit and wait anxiously in Selma's top dresser drawer for her to choose me, but more often she chose to take "the little bambina who ain't from Pasadena." There was no doubt that Camp Beverly Hills was out and Fiorucci was in!
One day, Selma came into the room, opened the drawer,took me lovingly into her arms and said aloud, "Well, the jig is up. You've just about had it with me. I think I'll donate you to the Hadassah rummage sale. Someone might still be able to make use out of you."
What was I hearing?! Selma, you can't mean it! After all those good times we've had together, you're getting rid of me?
There was no time to plead my case aloud 'cause Selma took me into the kitchen, tossed me over to Mrs. Baumgarten and said, "Here, Ma. You can take this along with your other old clothes to the rummage sale next week," and walked out.
Mrs. Baumgarten turned me over in her hands, examining me closely and said aloud, "Bazaar, shmazaar. They'll have enough stuff to sell. I'm keeping this. It'll be good to use as a shmatta for polishing silver."
Oh, no! How can she do this to me? How can Selma do this to me...?
So...that's the story of my life -- "A sweatshirt today, a shmatta tomorrow."
Here's another piece I wrote many, many, many years ago, and just dug up. I haven't read it in years, and will be reading as I type it. Hope the humor is still fresh.
From Riches to Shmattas
By: A. Shmatta
Wipe, wipe, wipe. Shine, shine, shine. Polish, polish, polish.
Oh, I'm so tired. Please let me rest awhile. Mrs. Baumgarten continues to rub me over her silver wine cups. Oooo, I'm so black and streaked. How will I ever get white again?
Mrs. Baumgarten tosses me onto the counter the moment the phone rings. She rushes to answer it. "Hullo? Ida Kaplan, how are you? How's Morris? How're the grandchildren?" She rattles on and on, finally giving me a chance to rest. She didn't place me in a very comfortable position however, so I'm lying her all scrunched up.
These days, my home is in the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink (where I can at least stay warm while hanging over the hot water pipes), and I only get washed about once a month. But you should know that not long ago, I was something. I was important! I was a white, cotton, fleece-lined sweatshirt and belonged to Selma, the youngest Baumgarten daughter. And not just any old white, cotton, fleece-lined sweatshirt either; I was a Camp Beverly Hills sweatshirt.
Was I ever thankful when three years ago, someone came into the boutique, ruffled through the rainbow-colored sweatshirts, and salvaged me from the bottom of the pile. Mmm, I don't look so bad, just a bit rumpled, I thought to myself as the teenager unfolded me and held me up against her chest as she looked in the mirror. The body contact felt good -- I'd lacked contact for a few weeks since that lady had finished sewing me in the factory. Was I thrilled when the girl told the saleslady, "Okay, charge this white one to my dad. Here's his credit card."
I was very popular in those days and got lots of compliments from Selma's crowd. "Wow, what a great sweatshirt. Selma, do you think I could borrow your 'sweat' sometime?"
Selma and I became bosom buddies. She took me nearly everywhere she went and I got to see a lot of sights -- the high school gym, the school library, some good movies, and even the back seat of an old, beat-up '69 Chevy. Spain last summer was great and California during spring break was even wilder. Some unpleasant places I came into contact with and dreaded were cluttered gym lockers and the dirty clothes hamper.
I also lived for a while with Brian Green, one of Selma's many boyfriends. He gave her a gold bracelet, and she in turn gave him her favorite sweatshirt -- that's me! Life with Brian wasn't so splendid. I often had to tag along to football games and be left alone on the bleachers. Once in a while, Muffy, Brian's terrier, started up with me. We'd get into some pretty heavy arm wrestling. She thought it was a ball. I didn't!
Lucky for me, the relationship lasted only a couple of months. Brian and Selma broke up and returned each other's love tokens. So, back I was with Selma, a little out of shape and showing a few more wrinkles, but still in style nonetheless.
At first, Selma was excited to have me back, but it soon became evident that there was competition in my life.
On a shopping outing one day, Selma, with me hugging her shoulders, stepped into the same boutique where we had first become acquainted (ie. where she had picked me up). She wasn't looking for anything in particular, but that didn't matter. No sooner were we in the store, than Selma spotted a neon banana-yellow sweatshirt. "Oh, how chic!" she exclaimed. "I just have to buy this Fiorucci. It'll add so much color to my wardrobe."
I hung there, peeking over Selma's shoulder and silently pleading, No, no. You don't want a Fiorucci. Fiorucci isn't in style. Camp Beverly Hills garb is!
Selma voiced her opinion to the saleslady as she pulled out her father's infamous credit card. "I'm going to be the first one in my crowd with a 'Fio' sweatshirt. If the girls see that I have one, they'll all want one too."
The next thing I knew, I was being stuffed into the Boutique La Moda bag, while the Fiorucci sweatshirt took its place around Selma's shoulders. Was I angry and jealous! Selma walked home, swinging the bag freely in her hand, so I was feeling pretty claustrophobic and nauseated within my plastic prison by the time we got home.
Selma laid me and my archrival side by side on her bed and went to call her friends to tell them of her latest purchase. The Fiorucci tried to make conversation with me, but I was in no mood to try to break through the language and cultural barrier.
Selma would still take me with her when she'd go out, but less frequently and to fewer places. I'd sit and wait anxiously in Selma's top dresser drawer for her to choose me, but more often she chose to take "the little bambina who ain't from Pasadena." There was no doubt that Camp Beverly Hills was out and Fiorucci was in!
One day, Selma came into the room, opened the drawer,took me lovingly into her arms and said aloud, "Well, the jig is up. You've just about had it with me. I think I'll donate you to the Hadassah rummage sale. Someone might still be able to make use out of you."
What was I hearing?! Selma, you can't mean it! After all those good times we've had together, you're getting rid of me?
There was no time to plead my case aloud 'cause Selma took me into the kitchen, tossed me over to Mrs. Baumgarten and said, "Here, Ma. You can take this along with your other old clothes to the rummage sale next week," and walked out.
Mrs. Baumgarten turned me over in her hands, examining me closely and said aloud, "Bazaar, shmazaar. They'll have enough stuff to sell. I'm keeping this. It'll be good to use as a shmatta for polishing silver."
Oh, no! How can she do this to me? How can Selma do this to me...?
So...that's the story of my life -- "A sweatshirt today, a shmatta tomorrow."
Confessions of a Barbie Doll
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I dug up this piece I'd written over 20 years ago. At the time I'd hoped to publish it, and after some snail mail back-and-forth correspondence with Mattel to use the Barbie and Mattel trademarks, permission was denied. Guess you can see why...
BTW, I shared the piece with a newfound friend and she said, "Your Barbie sounds just like Paris Hilton!!!"
CONFESSIONS OF A BARBIE DOLL
Hi, I'm Barbie. Actually, that's not my full name, but that's what my friends call me. Ken, Skipper, Madge, Farrah, Brooke, and Mr. T. all know me as Barbie. And if they really want to get my attention, they call, "Hey, Barbie Doll!" That's sure to make my head turn.
I lead what I think is a pretty exciting life for a young person, and I have lots of friends. Ken has been my steady boyfriend for quite a number of years now. We've talked about marriage, but have decided that we're not yet ready or mature enough for it. (Besides, Mattel has not yet designed a wedding chapel.)
Before I met Ken, I had a thing going with a soldier -- a G.I. His name was Joe; I never did find out what his last name was. But it didn't really matter -- I like men in uniform and I was very attracted to his army fatigues. We met on a blind date that Madge had arranged and we began dating after that.
The relationship didn't last too long because Joe always had to leave town for overseas missions and we began to drift apart. I had suggested that he try to get a job at NASA, but too many people had the same idea, and no more applications for astronauts were being accepted. Joe decided that he was meant to be a G.I. rather than just a suburban type and we broke up. I also had to give him back his dog tags, which he had let me wear as long as we were dating.
And then there was Ken. He was everything I'd ever wanted in a man: he was tall, handsome, wealthy, athletic and cultured. He reminds me, even to this day, of Oliver Barrett, the character that Ryan O'Neal played in the movie Love Story.
Like I mentioned before, I lead a pretty exciting life. I LOVE shopping for clothes and have a wardrobe like you wouldn't believe. My problem is that I can't bear to throw anything out. I got closets-full of clothes that I might've worn for one season and never again. But now, that might change because some of the styles are back in. I'm so glad that I can wear my patent leather shoes and purses again and not stand out in a crowd. The same goes for my plaid skirts, my leather bomber jackets, my fun furs and my ear muffs.
As for my hairstyle, well, that's changed with the times as well I've had it long, short, crimped, curly, braids a la Bo Derek and a fluffy hairdo like my friend Farrah. Maybe I should have taken a hint from my friend Madge, who believes that her pageboy style will never be out of fashion.
Most people think I'm pretty. I guess I am. Sometimes I'm even considered glamorous. People are pretty envious of my peaches-and-cream complexion, my natural blonde hair and my proportioned figure. But I've worked hard to look that way and my lifestyle is regimented by beauty tips and nutrition tips that I read about in Vogue, Glamour and Mademoiselle magazines each month. Even while growing up, I had subscriptions to Young Miss, Co-Ed, Teen, and later, Seventeen magazine.
Mom's friends told me to try my hand at modelling and I took a few course at Barbizon's modelling school in the city. My picture got into some catalogues for which I modelled clothing and accessories, and I was popular for a few years. I started losing contracts and realized that a look like mine is needed in the business for only a short while. It's okay -- I learned to handle it and took a few sessions with a psychotherapist who taught me how to deal with the rejection. There were a couple of chances for a comeback last year, but I declined the offers.
These days, my purpose in life is to fill the pages of my appointment book. I sty physically, socially, and mentally active. Every afternoon, I go to aerobics classes and then work out on the Nautilus equipment with my friends Mr. T. and The Incredible Hulk. Other than aerobics and Nautilus, I swim, surf, rollerskate, skateboard, cycle and dance. When I'm not physically or socially active, I like to read. Believe it or not, I like Harlequin stories, Kahlil Gibran's works, the New York Times, do-it-yourself, and also self-improvement books. I had once considered taking up journalism, but at the end, opted against it. I figured that a journalist's job is part of a dog-eat-dog world, and I hate violence.
I haven't worked in the last few years, anyways, not since I was modelling. When I was a teen, I worked after school in a Burger King and made pocket money. But ten years ago, Grand-Daddy passed on and left his billion-dollar fortune to our family. Dad divided the money equally among us and then helped me make some wise investments with my portion. I've lived off the interest ever since from my purchases, and my real estate properties. I also bought a motor home, a dune buggy, a show-dog Afghan, and became a partner in an ice-cream shop. Three years ago, I bought a home and decorated it myself. It has even been featured in Metropolitan Home and Architectural Digest magazines. I've had some tempting offers from people who want to buy it, but I've got no intention to sell it at the moment.
Not long ago, I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday. It was a blast. Daddy rented out a beach house with its own private beach and flew me and twenty of my closest friends there for the weekend. A mini-bus picked us up at the airport and drove us along the coast to Malibu, where we partied all weekend long. The weather was perfect, the view was fantastic and the company was just great...especially Ken. I couldn't have asked for anything more.
My gifts were pretty special, too. Ken gave me a beautiful sterling silver hairbrush, comb and mirrow set, and to top that off, he also gave me a diamond bracelet which read: BARBIE--25. He says that next year he'll give me a diamond ring for my birthday. Mom and Dad bought me a large share in that famous toy company Mattel, and an Italian sports car.
Now I think I'm all set for at least another twenty-five years, don't you?
I dug up this piece I'd written over 20 years ago. At the time I'd hoped to publish it, and after some snail mail back-and-forth correspondence with Mattel to use the Barbie and Mattel trademarks, permission was denied. Guess you can see why...
BTW, I shared the piece with a newfound friend and she said, "Your Barbie sounds just like Paris Hilton!!!"
CONFESSIONS OF A BARBIE DOLL
Hi, I'm Barbie. Actually, that's not my full name, but that's what my friends call me. Ken, Skipper, Madge, Farrah, Brooke, and Mr. T. all know me as Barbie. And if they really want to get my attention, they call, "Hey, Barbie Doll!" That's sure to make my head turn.
I lead what I think is a pretty exciting life for a young person, and I have lots of friends. Ken has been my steady boyfriend for quite a number of years now. We've talked about marriage, but have decided that we're not yet ready or mature enough for it. (Besides, Mattel has not yet designed a wedding chapel.)
Before I met Ken, I had a thing going with a soldier -- a G.I. His name was Joe; I never did find out what his last name was. But it didn't really matter -- I like men in uniform and I was very attracted to his army fatigues. We met on a blind date that Madge had arranged and we began dating after that.
The relationship didn't last too long because Joe always had to leave town for overseas missions and we began to drift apart. I had suggested that he try to get a job at NASA, but too many people had the same idea, and no more applications for astronauts were being accepted. Joe decided that he was meant to be a G.I. rather than just a suburban type and we broke up. I also had to give him back his dog tags, which he had let me wear as long as we were dating.
And then there was Ken. He was everything I'd ever wanted in a man: he was tall, handsome, wealthy, athletic and cultured. He reminds me, even to this day, of Oliver Barrett, the character that Ryan O'Neal played in the movie Love Story.
Like I mentioned before, I lead a pretty exciting life. I LOVE shopping for clothes and have a wardrobe like you wouldn't believe. My problem is that I can't bear to throw anything out. I got closets-full of clothes that I might've worn for one season and never again. But now, that might change because some of the styles are back in. I'm so glad that I can wear my patent leather shoes and purses again and not stand out in a crowd. The same goes for my plaid skirts, my leather bomber jackets, my fun furs and my ear muffs.
As for my hairstyle, well, that's changed with the times as well I've had it long, short, crimped, curly, braids a la Bo Derek and a fluffy hairdo like my friend Farrah. Maybe I should have taken a hint from my friend Madge, who believes that her pageboy style will never be out of fashion.
Most people think I'm pretty. I guess I am. Sometimes I'm even considered glamorous. People are pretty envious of my peaches-and-cream complexion, my natural blonde hair and my proportioned figure. But I've worked hard to look that way and my lifestyle is regimented by beauty tips and nutrition tips that I read about in Vogue, Glamour and Mademoiselle magazines each month. Even while growing up, I had subscriptions to Young Miss, Co-Ed, Teen, and later, Seventeen magazine.
Mom's friends told me to try my hand at modelling and I took a few course at Barbizon's modelling school in the city. My picture got into some catalogues for which I modelled clothing and accessories, and I was popular for a few years. I started losing contracts and realized that a look like mine is needed in the business for only a short while. It's okay -- I learned to handle it and took a few sessions with a psychotherapist who taught me how to deal with the rejection. There were a couple of chances for a comeback last year, but I declined the offers.
These days, my purpose in life is to fill the pages of my appointment book. I sty physically, socially, and mentally active. Every afternoon, I go to aerobics classes and then work out on the Nautilus equipment with my friends Mr. T. and The Incredible Hulk. Other than aerobics and Nautilus, I swim, surf, rollerskate, skateboard, cycle and dance. When I'm not physically or socially active, I like to read. Believe it or not, I like Harlequin stories, Kahlil Gibran's works, the New York Times, do-it-yourself, and also self-improvement books. I had once considered taking up journalism, but at the end, opted against it. I figured that a journalist's job is part of a dog-eat-dog world, and I hate violence.
I haven't worked in the last few years, anyways, not since I was modelling. When I was a teen, I worked after school in a Burger King and made pocket money. But ten years ago, Grand-Daddy passed on and left his billion-dollar fortune to our family. Dad divided the money equally among us and then helped me make some wise investments with my portion. I've lived off the interest ever since from my purchases, and my real estate properties. I also bought a motor home, a dune buggy, a show-dog Afghan, and became a partner in an ice-cream shop. Three years ago, I bought a home and decorated it myself. It has even been featured in Metropolitan Home and Architectural Digest magazines. I've had some tempting offers from people who want to buy it, but I've got no intention to sell it at the moment.
Not long ago, I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday. It was a blast. Daddy rented out a beach house with its own private beach and flew me and twenty of my closest friends there for the weekend. A mini-bus picked us up at the airport and drove us along the coast to Malibu, where we partied all weekend long. The weather was perfect, the view was fantastic and the company was just great...especially Ken. I couldn't have asked for anything more.
My gifts were pretty special, too. Ken gave me a beautiful sterling silver hairbrush, comb and mirrow set, and to top that off, he also gave me a diamond bracelet which read: BARBIE--25. He says that next year he'll give me a diamond ring for my birthday. Mom and Dad bought me a large share in that famous toy company Mattel, and an Italian sports car.
Now I think I'm all set for at least another twenty-five years, don't you?
You Can't Retract Your Words Even If You Try To Retrace Your Steps
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I was just "blog surfing" and came across such a stark rant that a child had for a parent. It was ugly; it was detailed; it was ANGER SPEAKING OUT.
Call me naive, but even if a person has been truly hurt, physically and emotionally, by a parent, is a blog the right path to take for venting? EVERYTHING you ever say in blogland "can and will be held against you." Even if you keep your identity secret, there is always something in a post that will give it away. Google archives hold you and your words captive for a very long time!
If it isn't a personal counselor/analyst you choose to speak to, then write a letter detailing your thoughts, but certainly do not post them. Those words are coarse, and ugly, and I really don't know how cathartic they are for you. I do know that I, as an innocent bystander, am more than embarrassed to read them...especially from a fellow Jew.
You rant in one post, and in the next post, you want to retract your words and announce your apology for venting so publicly, so loudly.
Your pain is palpable, but you can never retract those uttered words... Google's gotten hold of them and just won't let them go without a struggle.
Walk before you run. Look before you leap. Think before you speak.
Sometimes you just have to use those same lessons that a nasty parent might have taught you.
I was just "blog surfing" and came across such a stark rant that a child had for a parent. It was ugly; it was detailed; it was ANGER SPEAKING OUT.
Call me naive, but even if a person has been truly hurt, physically and emotionally, by a parent, is a blog the right path to take for venting? EVERYTHING you ever say in blogland "can and will be held against you." Even if you keep your identity secret, there is always something in a post that will give it away. Google archives hold you and your words captive for a very long time!
If it isn't a personal counselor/analyst you choose to speak to, then write a letter detailing your thoughts, but certainly do not post them. Those words are coarse, and ugly, and I really don't know how cathartic they are for you. I do know that I, as an innocent bystander, am more than embarrassed to read them...especially from a fellow Jew.
You rant in one post, and in the next post, you want to retract your words and announce your apology for venting so publicly, so loudly.
Your pain is palpable, but you can never retract those uttered words... Google's gotten hold of them and just won't let them go without a struggle.
Walk before you run. Look before you leap. Think before you speak.
Sometimes you just have to use those same lessons that a nasty parent might have taught you.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
R.S.V.P. ...not!
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Thought I was inviting you to some simcha, some gathering, some blogger festivities, huh? Sorry, nuh-uh... But I am inviting you to your opinions.
I'm in my 40's; I'm not in my late teens or twenties or thirties.
My parents are in their seventies and eighties, not in their fifties and sixties.
So, why, then, pray tell, do we continue to get wedding invitations that invite us to Kabbalat Panim, Chupah...and Simchat Chatan v'Kallah some five hours later?
Oh, yes, it's lovely to have a simcha, and want to share it with people, and of course, you can't invite everyone to partake in the festivities, but please...enough already.
I am a borderline acquaintance to you; you do not need to invite me; you might need the monetary gift for your children and this invitation/appeal is the cost of a postage stamp, or even better, a hand-delivered invitation. But the truth of the matter is that when you're married, with children who need babysitters, you're not gonna run home from work, get dressed for a chupah, rush to the shul or social hall, stay for a chupah and plan to go back in a few hours...to hand over the check.
My parents have friends from yesteryear who still have them in their address book. These friends' grandchildren get married, and the friends say, "Send an invitation to Mr. & Mrs. ____ for the chupah and simchat chatan v'kallah at 10:00." Yeah, like my parents really appreciate this nicety.
Over Shabbat lunch with friends we've had opportunity to discuss this matter and we're all voting the same: if you cannot afford to invite us forty- and fifty-somethings, don't, (can't talk for the twenty and thirty-somethings) but don't send a shout-out invite for the in-and-out celebrating. It just ain't worth it to us...!
Yes, we wish you a hearty mazel tov, and yes, we might send a gift when we hear that you're making a simcha, whether we're invited or not, but please...take us off the guest list...UNLESS IT'S FOR DINNER.
(and should we choose to attend your simcha, with the revolving door entry/exit, and give you a gift, find it in your heart -- and address book -- to send us a thank-you note...a nicety, just like the invitation was!)
Thought I was inviting you to some simcha, some gathering, some blogger festivities, huh? Sorry, nuh-uh... But I am inviting you to your opinions.
I'm in my 40's; I'm not in my late teens or twenties or thirties.
My parents are in their seventies and eighties, not in their fifties and sixties.
So, why, then, pray tell, do we continue to get wedding invitations that invite us to Kabbalat Panim, Chupah...and Simchat Chatan v'Kallah some five hours later?
Oh, yes, it's lovely to have a simcha, and want to share it with people, and of course, you can't invite everyone to partake in the festivities, but please...enough already.
I am a borderline acquaintance to you; you do not need to invite me; you might need the monetary gift for your children and this invitation/appeal is the cost of a postage stamp, or even better, a hand-delivered invitation. But the truth of the matter is that when you're married, with children who need babysitters, you're not gonna run home from work, get dressed for a chupah, rush to the shul or social hall, stay for a chupah and plan to go back in a few hours...to hand over the check.
My parents have friends from yesteryear who still have them in their address book. These friends' grandchildren get married, and the friends say, "Send an invitation to Mr. & Mrs. ____ for the chupah and simchat chatan v'kallah at 10:00." Yeah, like my parents really appreciate this nicety.
Over Shabbat lunch with friends we've had opportunity to discuss this matter and we're all voting the same: if you cannot afford to invite us forty- and fifty-somethings, don't, (can't talk for the twenty and thirty-somethings) but don't send a shout-out invite for the in-and-out celebrating. It just ain't worth it to us...!
Yes, we wish you a hearty mazel tov, and yes, we might send a gift when we hear that you're making a simcha, whether we're invited or not, but please...take us off the guest list...UNLESS IT'S FOR DINNER.
(and should we choose to attend your simcha, with the revolving door entry/exit, and give you a gift, find it in your heart -- and address book -- to send us a thank-you note...a nicety, just like the invitation was!)
"I'd Like To..."
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I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing
I'd like to build the world a home
And furnish it with love
Grow apple trees and honey bees (take note, David Bogner)
and snow-white turtle doves
I'd like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
I'd like to hold it in my arms
and keep it company
I'd like to see the world for once
All standing hand in hand
And hear them echo through the hills "Ah, peace throughout the land"
(That's the song I hear)
I'd like to teach the world to sing (that the world sings today)
In perfect harmony(Lead singer and background singers singing simultaneously)
I'd like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
I'd like to build the world a home
And furnish it with love
Grow apple trees and honey bees
and snow-white turtle doves
I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing
I'd like to build the world a home
And furnish it with love
Grow apple trees and honey bees (take note, David Bogner)
and snow-white turtle doves
I'd like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
I'd like to hold it in my arms
and keep it company
I'd like to see the world for once
All standing hand in hand
And hear them echo through the hills "Ah, peace throughout the land"
(That's the song I hear)
I'd like to teach the world to sing (that the world sings today)
In perfect harmony(Lead singer and background singers singing simultaneously)
I'd like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony
I'd like to build the world a home
And furnish it with love
Grow apple trees and honey bees
and snow-white turtle doves
Monday, August 15, 2005
Hula Hooping Her Way To Eight
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Tomorrow, August 16, my middle child, my daughter, turns eight. She is my Shabbos Nachamu baby who "disrupted" what was supposed to be a restful, peaceful Shabbos eight years ago. But the disruption was a welcome one, and when she was born about 20 minutes before Shabbos was out, I piped up, "I fished my wish."
Since I was a child, and the only girl in a family with two older brothers, I'd always hoped for a daughter. I'd also especially wanted a little girl so that I could give her the name of a cherished younger sister of my father who was a victim of the Holocaust.
My husband and I were blessed with this daughter of mine.
From a young age, she was beautiful but feisty. Her luring kitten-blue eyes could entice you or could shoot sparks of fire your way. At the tender age of about 2 1/2, she stood on playground equipment and announced to grade 1 schoolgirls, "You no go on slide; A--- go on slide." She stood her ground, and I could just picture her in a leather jacket, collar up, a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth, the leader of a girl gang from the fifties.
But she is indeed anything but. She is a gentle, loving and generous friend, daughter and sister, always looking out for other people -- she is attracted to children of all ages, and people of all ages are attracted to her. Her feistiness shines through every now and again with family members, and we are helping to direct her to recognize that there is a time and place for feistiness.
I love to watch her when she's not looking my way, and I sit in awe of this wondrous (poo, poo, poo) beauty; she has this "je ne sais quoi" about her -- this childlike elfin quality with the coyness of a grown woman; only, she doesn't use this coyness wittingly; it is just a part of who she is.
She does not like attention, nor praise, nor compliments -- a true Aishet Chayil in training. She does not want to draw attention to herself -- unless she's telling a story. Then it's details galore that rush out of her mouth, such as the retelling of her nighttime dreams, details and all, almost sounding as if they're miniseries that she's making up as she goes along.
This evening she was showing me how to Hoola Hoop. This little child was encouraging me, telling me, "You can do it...I'll show you an easy way." And she beamed when I spun that Hoola Hoop around my waist....ONCE. "Yay, you did it!" This from a kid who could shimmy that hoop from her shoulders to her ankles for endless minutes. This child beamed for and praised her mother just as a mother would praise her child.
Together we laughed in delight as we enjoyed our silly venture in a fad of days gone by...one I'd never mastered, but that she certainly has.
I wish this sweet daughter of mine continued good health, happiness and a peaceful world to grow up in. May she continue on the course of being an Aishet Chayil, may she maintain her feistiness, her charm, her beauty and her natural curiosity about the world around her...because the world around her is certainly curious about her.
May she continue to represent her first and middle names well, because they are very much a part of who and what she is to us and those around her.
Happy Birthday, "Motek"!
Tomorrow, August 16, my middle child, my daughter, turns eight. She is my Shabbos Nachamu baby who "disrupted" what was supposed to be a restful, peaceful Shabbos eight years ago. But the disruption was a welcome one, and when she was born about 20 minutes before Shabbos was out, I piped up, "I fished my wish."
Since I was a child, and the only girl in a family with two older brothers, I'd always hoped for a daughter. I'd also especially wanted a little girl so that I could give her the name of a cherished younger sister of my father who was a victim of the Holocaust.
My husband and I were blessed with this daughter of mine.
From a young age, she was beautiful but feisty. Her luring kitten-blue eyes could entice you or could shoot sparks of fire your way. At the tender age of about 2 1/2, she stood on playground equipment and announced to grade 1 schoolgirls, "You no go on slide; A--- go on slide." She stood her ground, and I could just picture her in a leather jacket, collar up, a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth, the leader of a girl gang from the fifties.
But she is indeed anything but. She is a gentle, loving and generous friend, daughter and sister, always looking out for other people -- she is attracted to children of all ages, and people of all ages are attracted to her. Her feistiness shines through every now and again with family members, and we are helping to direct her to recognize that there is a time and place for feistiness.
I love to watch her when she's not looking my way, and I sit in awe of this wondrous (poo, poo, poo) beauty; she has this "je ne sais quoi" about her -- this childlike elfin quality with the coyness of a grown woman; only, she doesn't use this coyness wittingly; it is just a part of who she is.
She does not like attention, nor praise, nor compliments -- a true Aishet Chayil in training. She does not want to draw attention to herself -- unless she's telling a story. Then it's details galore that rush out of her mouth, such as the retelling of her nighttime dreams, details and all, almost sounding as if they're miniseries that she's making up as she goes along.
This evening she was showing me how to Hoola Hoop. This little child was encouraging me, telling me, "You can do it...I'll show you an easy way." And she beamed when I spun that Hoola Hoop around my waist....ONCE. "Yay, you did it!" This from a kid who could shimmy that hoop from her shoulders to her ankles for endless minutes. This child beamed for and praised her mother just as a mother would praise her child.
Together we laughed in delight as we enjoyed our silly venture in a fad of days gone by...one I'd never mastered, but that she certainly has.
I wish this sweet daughter of mine continued good health, happiness and a peaceful world to grow up in. May she continue on the course of being an Aishet Chayil, may she maintain her feistiness, her charm, her beauty and her natural curiosity about the world around her...because the world around her is certainly curious about her.
May she continue to represent her first and middle names well, because they are very much a part of who and what she is to us and those around her.
Happy Birthday, "Motek"!
A Lovely Compliment
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Received an e-mail today; embedded in it was a lovely compliment.
By the way, I come to your blog all the time, whenever I need a dose of nice. It is a refreshing upbeat look at the world through jewish-colored glasses.
What a great bonus for me and my writing!
Received an e-mail today; embedded in it was a lovely compliment.
By the way, I come to your blog all the time, whenever I need a dose of nice. It is a refreshing upbeat look at the world through jewish-colored glasses.
What a great bonus for me and my writing!
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Music On My Mind
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As I've noted before, I'm forever singing, have always known lyrics to countless songs, I can often "name that tune in 3 notes", etc. Music has always and will always be part of who and what I am.
This night I've been thinking of some of the wonderful musicians & concerts I've seen over the years. These include:
*Tito Puente -- the venue was a restaurant, so it wasn't so large a place that I couldn't see him well. He was well into his senior years when I saw him, and his daughter performed as well. It was more than difficult to sit still in my seat with that wonderful rhythm of the bongos and the horns pounding out the music of Brazil and Cuba and other hot-blooded countries.
* George Benson -- I was about 17 when I went to see George with my two brothers and a friend of my oldest brother. The ride down to the concert venue was exciting in itself; my brother's friend owned a Porsche Targa with a sunroof. The roof was off and we were either standing with our head out of the roof, or the George Benson music was already blaring on the car stereo. The concert itself was memorable as Mr. Benson made that guitar playing look so easy and he became one with his guitar.
* Billy Joel -- I saw this concert when I was university and had amazing close-up seats, thanks to a friend. All around me, people were smoking up, pretty much first time I was plunked right into such a setting. I'd never smoked up, nor have I ever, but (now laugh all you want!) I came out of that concert, stinking like a joint, and I remember sniffing my sleeve, wondering if I could get high off of it!
* Michael Feinstein -- This great cabaret singer/pianist kept me smiling with his music that night. The next day, noon, I was lucky enough to have had a scheduled one-on-one interview with him for 45 minutes...that kept me smiling that night, and the next night, and the next night....
* Janis Ian -- I saw her at an outdoor, lakeside venue when I was in my late teens. "At Seventeen" had spoken to me when it was released; all of Janis's music spoke to me that night at the concert.
* Itzhak Perlman -- I take every opportunity I can to see this great master violinist in concert. I've seen him both conduct the Toronto Symphony and be its star performer on the same billing, a wonderful feat for anyone.
* BB King -- Another master guitarist whose guitar strings "sing the blues". The sweat pours off BB's forehead as he nimbly plucks away and makes his guitar sing.
There have been many other musical performers and concerts I've seen over the years, and perhaps I'll tackle some more at a later date, on another blog post.
As I've noted before, I'm forever singing, have always known lyrics to countless songs, I can often "name that tune in 3 notes", etc. Music has always and will always be part of who and what I am.
This night I've been thinking of some of the wonderful musicians & concerts I've seen over the years. These include:
*Tito Puente -- the venue was a restaurant, so it wasn't so large a place that I couldn't see him well. He was well into his senior years when I saw him, and his daughter performed as well. It was more than difficult to sit still in my seat with that wonderful rhythm of the bongos and the horns pounding out the music of Brazil and Cuba and other hot-blooded countries.
* George Benson -- I was about 17 when I went to see George with my two brothers and a friend of my oldest brother. The ride down to the concert venue was exciting in itself; my brother's friend owned a Porsche Targa with a sunroof. The roof was off and we were either standing with our head out of the roof, or the George Benson music was already blaring on the car stereo. The concert itself was memorable as Mr. Benson made that guitar playing look so easy and he became one with his guitar.
* Billy Joel -- I saw this concert when I was university and had amazing close-up seats, thanks to a friend. All around me, people were smoking up, pretty much first time I was plunked right into such a setting. I'd never smoked up, nor have I ever, but (now laugh all you want!) I came out of that concert, stinking like a joint, and I remember sniffing my sleeve, wondering if I could get high off of it!
* Michael Feinstein -- This great cabaret singer/pianist kept me smiling with his music that night. The next day, noon, I was lucky enough to have had a scheduled one-on-one interview with him for 45 minutes...that kept me smiling that night, and the next night, and the next night....
* Janis Ian -- I saw her at an outdoor, lakeside venue when I was in my late teens. "At Seventeen" had spoken to me when it was released; all of Janis's music spoke to me that night at the concert.
* Itzhak Perlman -- I take every opportunity I can to see this great master violinist in concert. I've seen him both conduct the Toronto Symphony and be its star performer on the same billing, a wonderful feat for anyone.
* BB King -- Another master guitarist whose guitar strings "sing the blues". The sweat pours off BB's forehead as he nimbly plucks away and makes his guitar sing.
There have been many other musical performers and concerts I've seen over the years, and perhaps I'll tackle some more at a later date, on another blog post.
I Learned a New Word Today
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First there was Orthodox. Then there was Conservative. Then there was Conservadox.
Today I learned a new word; I like this word; it rolls off the tongue very easily.
Everyone, practice saying it with me...on the count of three. One, two, three...
C-O-N-F-U-S-A-D-O-X
Say it again: CONFUSADOX.
Meaning: the nebulous state between Conservadox and Modern Orthodox.
First there was Orthodox. Then there was Conservative. Then there was Conservadox.
Today I learned a new word; I like this word; it rolls off the tongue very easily.
Everyone, practice saying it with me...on the count of three. One, two, three...
C-O-N-F-U-S-A-D-O-X
Say it again: CONFUSADOX.
Meaning: the nebulous state between Conservadox and Modern Orthodox.
Vive La Air France!
Blogroll Me!
Not that I travel much, but once upon a time I signed up to get a weekly mailing from Air Canada, noting their seat sales and their weekend seat sales...just in case I wanted to travel somewhere, just in case I could manage it.
This week I got my regular mailing from Air Canada.
This week I also got a mailing from Air France.
Hey, they're looking for customers; they're offering seat sales; they're in need of polishing up their recently tarnished reputation, due to the major crash of one of their fleet that took place a couple of weeks ago at Toronto's airport.
Book your flights for this Fall now, and fly to France
for as low as $ 618
Our return fares departing from Montreal and Toronto:
Book before August 18 and take advantage of our promotional fares:Paris, Nice, Toulouse, Bordeaux, Marseille, ... All France is offered at very low prices:
Departure dates :
Sep. 12 - Oct. 9, 2005
Oct. 10 - Dec. 8, 2005
Return fares to France:
$ 788
$ 618
Sounds magnifique, sounds inviting, sounds decadent...to just pick up the phone and reserve a flight to la belle pays France -- but this beautiful country, in spite of its fine wines, gourmet meals and lovely sights has a pretty major drawback these days. It's called l'antisemitism/antisemitism.
So, do I really want to go on an airline that just got worldwide coverage to a country that slowly is getting day by day worldwide coverage. Miracles happened on a Toronto runway, in spite of great, snaking flames. But in France, there have been great snaking flames in Jewish areas...and no miracles.
Not that I travel much, but once upon a time I signed up to get a weekly mailing from Air Canada, noting their seat sales and their weekend seat sales...just in case I wanted to travel somewhere, just in case I could manage it.
This week I got my regular mailing from Air Canada.
This week I also got a mailing from Air France.
Hey, they're looking for customers; they're offering seat sales; they're in need of polishing up their recently tarnished reputation, due to the major crash of one of their fleet that took place a couple of weeks ago at Toronto's airport.
Book your flights for this Fall now, and fly to France
for as low as $ 618
Our return fares departing from Montreal and Toronto:
Book before August 18 and take advantage of our promotional fares:Paris, Nice, Toulouse, Bordeaux, Marseille, ... All France is offered at very low prices:
Departure dates :
Sep. 12 - Oct. 9, 2005
Oct. 10 - Dec. 8, 2005
Return fares to France:
$ 788
$ 618
Sounds magnifique, sounds inviting, sounds decadent...to just pick up the phone and reserve a flight to la belle pays France -- but this beautiful country, in spite of its fine wines, gourmet meals and lovely sights has a pretty major drawback these days. It's called l'antisemitism/antisemitism.
So, do I really want to go on an airline that just got worldwide coverage to a country that slowly is getting day by day worldwide coverage. Miracles happened on a Toronto runway, in spite of great, snaking flames. But in France, there have been great snaking flames in Jewish areas...and no miracles.
A Mournful Kind of Day
Blogroll Me!
I am not in shul. I am not listening in on any lectures.
It is gray, gloomy and rainy outside. My head is pounding, as both yesterday and today I've been nursing another one of those sinus headaches . I feel gross and wish that someone would take apart my head, nose and eyes, then put them back together -- pain free.
The newscasts tell us: plane crash in Greece, shootings here and there...and the Gush Katif forced evacuation looming on the immediate horizon.
It is indeed a mournful kind of day. May we all merit to see the coming of the Mashiach and the rebuilding of the temple "bimheyra b'yamaynu".
I am not in shul. I am not listening in on any lectures.
It is gray, gloomy and rainy outside. My head is pounding, as both yesterday and today I've been nursing another one of those sinus headaches . I feel gross and wish that someone would take apart my head, nose and eyes, then put them back together -- pain free.
The newscasts tell us: plane crash in Greece, shootings here and there...and the Gush Katif forced evacuation looming on the immediate horizon.
It is indeed a mournful kind of day. May we all merit to see the coming of the Mashiach and the rebuilding of the temple "bimheyra b'yamaynu".
Friday, August 12, 2005
Help! I've Been Outed!
Blogroll Me!
Okay, so I have a blog. I have a signing name of TorontoPearl. I write about my family life, my social life, my community life. I might give some revealing details, but I do not name names. I try not to represent Lashon Harah, although, if need be, I could excel at it! I am not the only Pearl in this city, nor the only Pearl who matches up with several of those revealing details.
But I've been outed.
A couple nights ago, I was talking to a fellow school mother and she mentioned the upcoming Yidstock music festival being held at Monticello Racetrack in the Catskill Mountains. I told her I knew about it, having read about the festival on a blog, and then I asked if she knows what a blog is (many people are like I was a year ago; I'd never heard or used the term) and then mentioned I have one.
"I know...I've been on it."
WHAT!!?? I silently screamed. HOW COULD YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?
She went on, as if she'd read my thoughts: "I can't remember how I know about it, but I know about it..."
I felt as if my fig leaf had been ripped away, my protective cover stripped away.
How could that be? you wonder. A blog might be a personal online journal, but it is ONLINE, and thus public.
I do have friends I've mentioned to that I keep a blog, but aside from one who found it on her own many months ago through a link, nobody has asked for the URL and that's been more than fine for me.
How do I explain it to them, or to myself even, that it seems okay to let a bunch of strangers worldwide read my words and think, "Hey, she's just some gal overseas/in the Great White North, who has some interesting things to say." They are exactly that: a bunch of strangers. I've met some of the strangers already or have corresponded offline with several of them, and all is fine with that and even that they associate the offline Pearl with the online Pearl. But somehow I can't get around the fact that some people who might know me are reading these words, and now know me even more. It's as if I still want to keep this part of my life a secret, a private part...away from my regular circle of friends and acquaintances, away from school and shul people. If I wanted them to know so much about me, well I wouldn't keep it a secret, would I?
It's difficult to explain that near-fear and dismay that clutched at me when this person told me she'd read my blog. It wasn't her per se I didn't want reading it, it's "them."
You are you, and they are "them." Subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless.
The question now is: Should I toss my head and say, "To hell with THEM!" and keep on writing, or should I take my writing underground and say, "To hell with blogging!"
Okay, so I have a blog. I have a signing name of TorontoPearl. I write about my family life, my social life, my community life. I might give some revealing details, but I do not name names. I try not to represent Lashon Harah, although, if need be, I could excel at it! I am not the only Pearl in this city, nor the only Pearl who matches up with several of those revealing details.
But I've been outed.
A couple nights ago, I was talking to a fellow school mother and she mentioned the upcoming Yidstock music festival being held at Monticello Racetrack in the Catskill Mountains. I told her I knew about it, having read about the festival on a blog, and then I asked if she knows what a blog is (many people are like I was a year ago; I'd never heard or used the term) and then mentioned I have one.
"I know...I've been on it."
WHAT!!?? I silently screamed. HOW COULD YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?
She went on, as if she'd read my thoughts: "I can't remember how I know about it, but I know about it..."
I felt as if my fig leaf had been ripped away, my protective cover stripped away.
How could that be? you wonder. A blog might be a personal online journal, but it is ONLINE, and thus public.
I do have friends I've mentioned to that I keep a blog, but aside from one who found it on her own many months ago through a link, nobody has asked for the URL and that's been more than fine for me.
How do I explain it to them, or to myself even, that it seems okay to let a bunch of strangers worldwide read my words and think, "Hey, she's just some gal overseas/in the Great White North, who has some interesting things to say." They are exactly that: a bunch of strangers. I've met some of the strangers already or have corresponded offline with several of them, and all is fine with that and even that they associate the offline Pearl with the online Pearl. But somehow I can't get around the fact that some people who might know me are reading these words, and now know me even more. It's as if I still want to keep this part of my life a secret, a private part...away from my regular circle of friends and acquaintances, away from school and shul people. If I wanted them to know so much about me, well I wouldn't keep it a secret, would I?
It's difficult to explain that near-fear and dismay that clutched at me when this person told me she'd read my blog. It wasn't her per se I didn't want reading it, it's "them."
You are you, and they are "them." Subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless.
The question now is: Should I toss my head and say, "To hell with THEM!" and keep on writing, or should I take my writing underground and say, "To hell with blogging!"
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Ga-Ga-Ga-Goo..gle Me
Blogroll Me!
Here's a round-up of some recent searches that led you to me. Yeah, you're not alone in your "huh?" look.
1) Twilight Zone theme song
2) "merriam-webster" + dictionary + haredi
3) traveler's prayer
4) andy rooney's telemarketer
5) musical version of tefilat haderech
6) sneak into universal studios from citywalk, bathroom
7) "jewish men" "sex drive"
8) Hilary Duff caught skinny dipping
Here's a round-up of some recent searches that led you to me. Yeah, you're not alone in your "huh?" look.
1) Twilight Zone theme song
2) "merriam-webster" + dictionary + haredi
3) traveler's prayer
4) andy rooney's telemarketer
5) musical version of tefilat haderech
6) sneak into universal studios from citywalk, bathroom
7) "jewish men" "sex drive"
8) Hilary Duff caught skinny dipping
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