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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

little lamb lost in the woods...

I feel a bit lost lately.

There are so many things that I want.

I want a baby.

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

I am scared that I will never know this.

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

I have to keep my distance.

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

Please G-d, what will be?

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

I fear the answer will be no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"One, Singular Sensation..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Observation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So until next time...

A Brief Spelling Lesson

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Day-After Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Belated Valentine's Day!

"My Yiddishe Mama," Tom Jones-Style

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know what? He's right!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simple. Speedy. The touch of a button.

Publish post.

With Microphone in Hand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Coming Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Medicine Cabinet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Modern Art...or Food for Thought

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

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

I opt for b.

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

The $20 Bill

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

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

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

Hands started going up.

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

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

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

Still the hands went into the air.

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

A Filler

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I learned this little bit some years ago and thought it ingenious. Even if you don't know Hebrew, you can read along -- everything is made clear by the end. It sort of reminds me of Abbott & Costello's "Who's On First?"

Ani means me
Me means who
Who means he
He means she

Child # 4 aka Max

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Just a minute ago, I had Max the shih-poo sitting on my lap as I was surfing the Net. I recall several years ago, when I had my second child and I'd be busy surfing the Net for Jewish genealogy (that was my interest then, pre-blogging years), and the baby would sit on my lap as I typed. Of course, she'd reach and want to press keys herself.

Max is a very inquisitive dog, and also is busy sniffing the keyboard. And I began to wonder if he should maybe not have his own dog blog.

He could call it "Max's Meet 'n Mingle".

He'd talk about his life on Earth so far -- what he's seen and heard up until a week ago, when we acquired him. And of course, he'd have to write about his new family and how they spoil him and coddle him. He'd write about the new neighborhood and the people he's seen and sniffed. He'd write about his new acquisitions: stolen towels, stolen slippers, stolen socks, stolen leashes. He'd write about his gourmet meals twice a day.

Max has it pretty good so far. It's just over a week since he's been with us; and he just turned 6 months old a couple of days ago; so much to say, that I think he's got a long blogging career ahead of him. I mean, how many dogs do you know that have their own daily blogs? He might just have a head start in the blogging marketplace. He could have doggie-oriented ads alongside his own writing, and if his blog is off and running, he could start a group blog and call it "In the Doghouse".

Let's hear it for Max: "Two paws up"!

Seek and Ye Shall Find

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I don't know how I discover the things I do, or sometimes can't even recall when I discovered them.

But I'm pleased to have discovered them. Oftentimes a small discovery makes a large difference in my life.

Had it not been for once having discovered www.annaolswanger.com, a woman who'd send out quarterly newsletters of new releases of Jewish interest in the publishing industy, I would not have learned of Robert Avrech's Seraphic Press, his book, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden, or his blog, Seraphic Secret. I would not have learned of a California-based short story and children' s book contest, which I entered, but subsequently didn't win. I would not have learned of a Jewish literary magazine, Poetica Magazine, to which I submitted a poem, and the March 2006 issue will feature that poem.

Had I not discovered Robert's blog, I would not have discovered several of your blogs. And I certainly would not have begun one of my own.

Had I not discovered Robert and his blog, I would not have forged a warm personal friendship, and made a business contact. Primarily I would not have learned about Robert and Karen's wonderful, and very special son, Ariel -- a person to emulate and certainly a person to admire.

I have found that Google searches lead to magnificent discoveries, great and small. One of those discoveries is http://www.atlantajewish.com/, another online magazine I get. It arrives monthly in my in-box and features some good writing.

I'm sure that many of you have your own tales of online discoveries to share. Why not do just that?

The Journeys We Take

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Me: "I think I understand why that carrier is called SAMSON; it would have to be mighty strong to hold all those pieces of luggage."

Porter: "That's right, ma'am. That SAMSON does its job real well, just as I do mine. Now which suitcase did you say is yours?"

Me: "Um...that blue trunk on the right near the top, and that red suitcase at the top in the middle. Do you think it'll be a problem to get them for me?"

Porter: "Not at all, ma'am. You ever heard of the domino effect? I'll just reach for this red one on the bottom right, will pull it out, and just like Jericho's walls came a-tumblin' down, so will those suitcases. It'll then be a snap to get yours!"

I chose this image 'cause I thought it was fun; I created this scenario 'cause I thought it was fun. But when I thought of writing this post, I was a bit more serious, a bit more pensive...

How many times have you driven past houses or apartment buildings and seen the garbage cans and bags sitting curbside, sometimes along with household odds and ends, furniture, appliances, and SUITCASES?

Have you ever noticed those suitcases? Really noticed them?

Have you stopped to think about the journeys those bags have taken, the stories they could tell?

Many of them are in perfectly good shape -- not torn, not broken, just old and outdated. A beautiful heavy plastic Samsonite trio of suitcases might be tossed aside in favour of a cloth, oversized carryon with wheels. A wooden steamer trunk might have made the trek across a couple of continents and the ocean, later to go into storage, then to come out of storage and become someone's end table, then to get tossed aside, now an outdated eyesore.

I love vintage luggage. I love going into my parents' basement and seeing the beautiful pieces that my family traveled with in the 1960's and 1970's, and the big brown leather suitcases that my father traveled with in the 1940's and 1950's.

His suitcases have a history. Those pieces have journeyed -- not necessarily traveled, but journeyed. And there is a difference.

No, his suitcases don't have those old-fashioned stickers adorning them; he wasn't in Naples, or Paris, or Geneva, or Salt Lake City, or the Grand Canyon. But their interiors hold secrets, secrets whispered quietly when nobody can hear.

I went a few years ago to a content sale down my street; the homeowner who was a widow was downsizing and moving from her house into a condominium. There was nothing she was offering that I needed. But there was something that I wanted. It was a wooden trunk--it was not in good and serviceable condition, I didn't know what I would do with it, but I felt that I ought to have it because I felt that it represented her journey no doubt across the ocean from Eastern Europe to Canada. I couldn't understand why she'd want to part with it, whether it was in good condition or not.

My husband hemmed and hawed with me about the purchase and then we jointly decided against it. "Where would we put it? What would we do with it? It really does look broken and junky. And how do we know it was the homeowner's trunk and not just something she picked up once she settled here?" Why did I seem so adamant about taking on what I imagined to be part of her personal history? It was exactly that -- HER history, not mine.

There is a book that I know of, Hana's Suitcase, which was written a few years ago by a Torontonian. The book is based on the story of the suitcase of a girl who was taken to, and died in, Auschwitz. Her suitcase represents a young girl who died too young, but whose story has been told in many different languages all around the world.

Yes, Hanna and her suitcase took a journey. Her suitcase survived. Hanna didn't.

Max Speaks

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I've been asked by Max the shih-poo to keep this short and sweet, because it's way past his bedtime and he needs his beauty sleep, and doesn't really have much time to concentrate on contributing to a "blodge".

"Max, that's blog, not blodge. Neil Kramer's mother talks about blodges. But it's blog. B-L-O-G. You know, Max. Blog. Rhymes with dog. D-O-G."

Anyhow, so here's the long and short of it.

Family dog dies in June. Family very sad. Family doesn't think they'll get another dog. Family begins to think about getting another dog. Family begins to think about adopting another dog.

Hubby looks online. Hubby and wife spot Max/Snoopy online. Snoopy lives very far away, will need to travel to us via modern transportation. Family adopts dog. Arrangements are made online with dog shadchan (matchmaker).

Children do not know family has adopted dog. Children see picture of Snoopy on home computer screensaver. "Who is this dog?" "Just a dog whose picture we liked." "N, do you like this dog?" "Yes." "What do you think is a good name for a dog?" "Max." Hubby and wife like this name. Decide to change it.

Dog is supposed to arrive by van. Bad weather ensues. Trip put off for another week. Dog is supposed to arrive by van. Van trouble. Trip delayed. Agreed that dog will come via airplane; hubby and wife will not pay extra because of problems at the other end.

Wife begins to laugh to self. She pictures hubby going to the airport to the Arrivals, holding up a big sign with "Snoopy", and Snoopy coming through automated door, pulling his own online luggage with the strap in his teeth. In truth, dog comes via cargo. Very scared; shaking like a vibrator for quite some time. Warms up to hubby and wife. Children in bed; do not see dog.

In morning, children discover there is a new dog. Children come downstairs, with an expression of being awestruck -- the same expression when mother brought new babies home from the hospital. Youngest child explains to the other two, "This is Max. He's the dog from the computer. HE'S FAMOUS!!!"

Children elated; parents elated; puppy elated.

No pets were hurt for the re-telling of this story.

Max asked me to share with you his new motto in life: PEEING IS BELIEVING.

Max also told me to tell you people that my friend Randi is very funny (read her blog and you will see what I mean). When sent a photo of Max that is different (in which Max's fur is a little wilder looking) than the one in the last post, Randi said, "He's adorable. If you put a stick in him, you could use him as a mop!" Max thought this was a very funny line, and came up with this retort: "If Pearl's hubby would've have gotten a chihuahua as he suggested they get, he could've put a stick in the chihuahua and used him as a squeegee!"

The Dog Formerly Known As Snoopy

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Just as that purple-rained Prince changed his name, so did this dog. Or at least, so did his new owners.

This dog is hereby to be recognized as "MAX, formerly known as Snoopy."

Okay, I know...that's a mouthful of a name -- for a dog, or even for a person, were that to be the case. So I guess the dog's owners will let you shorten his name to simply "MAX."

I'd been talking with the new owners when they were trying to decide on a name and they came up with some lengthy list, let me tell you. Yes, Max topped the list, but Einstein wasn't too far behind. And it was some five-year-old Einstein of a kid who came up with the name Max!

I think that kid knows a Max when he sees one...

Max has an interesting tail of his own to tell you, but he asked me to tell you that right now he's getting a comb-over at the groomer, along with a nice bubble bath...followed by a not-so-nice visit to a veterinarian. He will have to get back to you with his story.

In the meantime, maybe the blogging community can give Max and his new owners a "Muzzle Tov" and together dance a "Canine-a-hora"!

My [Blogging] Neighborhood Revisited

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Okay, and now for the serious part of the show, folks.

Yes, I wrote that cutesie post before this one, but my original plan for that post had been to make it a serious one, another one of my introspections, if you may. But I guess the humorous side wanted to make an appearance before the serious side did.

So going back to that neighborhood...

I often wonder how the heck I end up corresponding with several bloggers time and again, with some of them more often. What is it that draws us together?

I'm not stupid. I realize that if I in fact did live in a real-to-life community amongst all the bloggers I named in the previous post, I probably wouldn't be friends with many of you, and vice versa. What do we truly have in common?

So many of us are ages apart; I have young children, you have young-adult children or married children , as well as grandchildren. So many of us are at different stages in our lives; some are settled in their cities and in their jobs, while others are still out there, searching for whatever it is they are searching for.

On the religious totem pole we vary; as a result of that variation, I wouldn't even be able to eat in some of your homes; you wouldn't necessarily want to visit me on a Friday night or Saturday, either.

So what is it that draws us together? We're not so anonymous anymore and we've shared inside secrets. Are we just the equivalent of speakers and listeners in this blogosphere? Does that spatial distance in the cyber world work as a shield, allowing us this free contact. Would we normally tell each other these things out there in the real world, do you think?

I continue to be fascinated by questions such as these. And I invite you to ponder them with me.

Zen Judaism

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Zen Judaism:The Jewish Approach to Zen

If there is no self, whose arthritis is this?

Be here now.
Be someplace else later.
Is that so complicated?

Drink tea and nourish life.
With the first sip... joy.
With the second... satisfaction.
With the third, peace.
With the fourth, a danish.

Wherever you go, there you are.
Your luggage is another story.

Accept misfortune as a blessing.
Do not wish for perfect health or a life without problems.
What would you talk about?

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single "oy."

There is no escaping karma.

In a previous life, you never called, you never wrote, you never visited. And whose fault was that?

Zen is not easy.
It takes effort to attain nothingness.
And then what do you have?
Bupkes.

The Tao does not speak.
The Tao does not blame.
The Tao does not take sides.
The Tao has no expectations.
The Tao demands nothing of others.
The Tao is not Jewish.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Forget this and attaining Enlightenment will be the least of your problems.

Let your mind be as a floating cloud.
Let your stillness be as the wooded glen.
And sit up straight. You'll never meet the Buddha with such rounded shoulders.

Be patient and achieve all things.
Be impatient and achieve all things faster.

To Find the Buddha, look within.
Deep inside you are ten thousand flowers.
Each flower blossoms ten thousand times.
Each blossom has ten thousand petals.
You might want to see a specialist.

To practice Zen and the art of Jewish motorcycle maintenance, do the following: get rid of the motorcycle.
What were you thinking?

Be aware of your body.
Be aware of your perceptions.
Keep in mind that not every physical sensation is a symptom of a terminal illness.

The Torah says," Love thy neighbor as thyself."
The Buddha says there is no "self."
So, maybe you are off the hook.

The Buddha taught that one should practice lovingkindness to all sentient beings.
Still, would it kill you to find a nice sentient being who happens to be Jewish?

Though only your skin, sinews, and bones remain,
though your blood and flesh dry up and wither away,
yet shall you meditate and not stir until you have attained full Enlightenment.
But, first, a little nosh.