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Doctor Bean has just assisted in doing emergency surgery on my blog, patiently and wisely guiding me through a "colorotechnosis"-- helping to reinstate color into my life.
I thank you and my blog thanks you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
In his infinite wisdom, he has also helped me discover other buttons missing from my life that could be a definite turn-on, such as "font" and "size". (excuse my tongue-in-cheekiness)
I think I will put them all to good use.
Thank you, Doctor Bean. Payment is pending...
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Shabbos Nachamu...or Life's Funny Like That
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Shabbos Nachamu holds some personal significance for me.
One summer(perhaps 1991) I was in NY's Catskill Mountains at a NY-based singles' Shabbos Nachamu weekend being held at the Concord Hotel. I'd traveled to NYC to be with a girl whom I'd become friends with the previous summer at a Niagara Falls singles' shabbaton. She'd planned ahead that we'd spend the weekend at the Concord and so she made plans through a NY-based group for the two of us, as well as for 3 or 4 of her friends that were going to be there too.
It was a fun Shabbos Nachamu weekend, even if I didn't meet the man of my dreams.
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1993. I've already been dating "the one" since December 1992 and we'd decided that some point in the summertime we'd get engaged. I spent Shabbos Nachamu 1993 at "the one's" mother's home, with "the one" being housed in a room down the hall. I recall when Shabbos was over and I called my parents to wish them a shavuah tov, my father got on the line and said "NU? So any news?" "No, Dad...don't worry, it'll happen." He told me that he remembers that back home (in Shtetlville)that people got engaged around this time. (Okay, so my father and mother, as well as I, only had to wait a few more weeks for that special moment.)
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1997. I'm married, and later in the afternoon I'm having contractions with baby # 2, so it's not really a relaxing Shabbos as the name depicts. We hope to hold out till Shabbos is over, but that doesn't happen. We have a prearranged taxi service with set fee and $ for the driver to pick up (we looked into the halachic aspects...just in case of this scenario), we go to the hospital, and baby daughter is born about 25 minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that, Shabbos Nachamu is over, and we happily get to call family members and let them know how we spent our Shabbos Nachamu.
In hindsight, perhaps we should have given our daughter the name "Nechama"/comfort, in honor of the day she was born. But even without that name, but with her other two beautiful given names, she is a continual comfort in our lives.
Thinking ahead, I hope you all have a wonderful and significant Shabbos Nachamu yourselves.
Shabbos Nachamu holds some personal significance for me.
One summer(perhaps 1991) I was in NY's Catskill Mountains at a NY-based singles' Shabbos Nachamu weekend being held at the Concord Hotel. I'd traveled to NYC to be with a girl whom I'd become friends with the previous summer at a Niagara Falls singles' shabbaton. She'd planned ahead that we'd spend the weekend at the Concord and so she made plans through a NY-based group for the two of us, as well as for 3 or 4 of her friends that were going to be there too.
It was a fun Shabbos Nachamu weekend, even if I didn't meet the man of my dreams.
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1993. I've already been dating "the one" since December 1992 and we'd decided that some point in the summertime we'd get engaged. I spent Shabbos Nachamu 1993 at "the one's" mother's home, with "the one" being housed in a room down the hall. I recall when Shabbos was over and I called my parents to wish them a shavuah tov, my father got on the line and said "NU? So any news?" "No, Dad...don't worry, it'll happen." He told me that he remembers that back home (in Shtetlville)that people got engaged around this time. (Okay, so my father and mother, as well as I, only had to wait a few more weeks for that special moment.)
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1997. I'm married, and later in the afternoon I'm having contractions with baby # 2, so it's not really a relaxing Shabbos as the name depicts. We hope to hold out till Shabbos is over, but that doesn't happen. We have a prearranged taxi service with set fee and $ for the driver to pick up (we looked into the halachic aspects...just in case of this scenario), we go to the hospital, and baby daughter is born about 25 minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that, Shabbos Nachamu is over, and we happily get to call family members and let them know how we spent our Shabbos Nachamu.
In hindsight, perhaps we should have given our daughter the name "Nechama"/comfort, in honor of the day she was born. But even without that name, but with her other two beautiful given names, she is a continual comfort in our lives.
Thinking ahead, I hope you all have a wonderful and significant Shabbos Nachamu yourselves.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Bloggers... A Class of Their Own
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"Class, I'm TorontoPearl, and today I will be your substitute teacher."
Boos and hisses, grumbles and mumbles can be heard.
"Where's the regular teacher? Why is she missing? Did she give you a hint as to what she's up to?" calls out Rochelle Krich.
"Oh, Miss Manners is off on a holiday from blogging for this afternoon."
"Does this mean we have to listen to you?" blurts out Jackbenimble.
"Oh, Jack, be quiet!" says Stacey. "Stop behaving like the monkey you are."
"Who's talking, Shmatta Queen, ex-Clevelander? Why should I be quiet -- U2 have to be quiet!"
"Class, class. I don't have very long to teach you this lesson, so please pay attention. Pick up your notepads and start writing this stuff down."
"Can I use my Treo?" asks Doctor Bean.
And ball-and-chain, his best friend, is sitting beside him in some fabulous red leather chair that she brought from home. "I'll let Doctor Bean take notes for me," she announces.
"And I think I'll use my new pen with its vibrating tip," adds Psycho Toddler.
"Hey, guys, just listen to the nice teacher. You all sound like a bunch of noisy bees in their hives," says Treppenwitz.
"Okay, thank you --"
"Psst, Robert! Can you keep a secret?" whispers Karen in the back row.
(Robert looks over his shoulder.) "Y-yeah, I-I can," he stutters anxiously.
"I think you love me," announces Karen.
"I love you!?" blurts out Robert, suddenly realizing that everyone has heard. He feels a headache coming on.
The class breaks out in songsong: "Robert loves Karen...and he's gonna marry her... Robert and Karen, sitting in a tree, talking about movies, and the Lincoln Square shul, he's gonna marry her when they're well out of school!"
"Silence, class. As I said, I'm not here for a long time, so please show some respect. Be polite. And save your comments for after class. Now, I'd like someone to name me some tips that you need to know about being a blogger."
A young man raises his hand.
"Yes, A Simple Jew?"
He speaks quietly but firmly. "One should use fewer words to have the most impact. One should speak from the heart, and if necessary and available, use citations."
"Very good. Now that young man, over there... Neil. Please answer the same question."
"One should certainly consider his or her audience. Pretend you're a teacher relating to students or a rabbi relating to his congregants. A few jokes can't hurt, either, nor can some references to classic TV shows and books."
"And you, Mr. Rubin. Put down that CD of Matisyahu; now is not music class. So what do you offer the class?"
"Um, LIFE is what you make it."
"I'll drink to that!" pipes up Air Time. "L'chaim! Hey, if we're drinking, maybe we should be eating too. How about some barbecued kishka and steaks?"
OrthoMom, Still Wonderin' and Just Passing Through start talking amongst themselves in the corner of the classroom.
"You three are being very rude. Avoid inside jokes -- you're alienating the rest of the class. Now, Mirty...where's sweet Mirty?"
"She went to Israel," advises Stacey. "We're gonna miss her for a couple of weeks, aren't we, guys?"
"Ye...s....s..." is heard in unison.
"Does anyone else have a comment to make about today's topic of discussion?"
"Do you people like outspokeness? I like outspokeness...I like honesty...I like to rant about my parents and the people around me. I'm very tongue-in-cheek, but I think people like that, too," offers up Yettabettaboo.
"Very, very good, class. I like what you had to say. Now we will have a very quick spelling lesson, so please take notes:
"Your does NOT MEAN you are. Your is the possessive form of something belonging to you. YOU'RE means you are. Get that straight.
"Its is the possessive form of something belonging to it. IT'S means it is.
"But I think the bell just rang, so I have to stop here for now. I didn't get to ask everyone their thoughts on blogging today-- sorry, Ink As Rain, Ralphie, and as well, there were a few students, such as Sara, missing from this session. No doubt Five Years Later we'll see a new stream of students interested in blogging. And if we're lucky, perhaps RenReb will be a guest speaker at the next class. Class dismissed...!"
"Class, I'm TorontoPearl, and today I will be your substitute teacher."
Boos and hisses, grumbles and mumbles can be heard.
"Where's the regular teacher? Why is she missing? Did she give you a hint as to what she's up to?" calls out Rochelle Krich.
"Oh, Miss Manners is off on a holiday from blogging for this afternoon."
"Does this mean we have to listen to you?" blurts out Jackbenimble.
"Oh, Jack, be quiet!" says Stacey. "Stop behaving like the monkey you are."
"Who's talking, Shmatta Queen, ex-Clevelander? Why should I be quiet -- U2 have to be quiet!"
"Class, class. I don't have very long to teach you this lesson, so please pay attention. Pick up your notepads and start writing this stuff down."
"Can I use my Treo?" asks Doctor Bean.
And ball-and-chain, his best friend, is sitting beside him in some fabulous red leather chair that she brought from home. "I'll let Doctor Bean take notes for me," she announces.
"And I think I'll use my new pen with its vibrating tip," adds Psycho Toddler.
"Hey, guys, just listen to the nice teacher. You all sound like a bunch of noisy bees in their hives," says Treppenwitz.
"Okay, thank you --"
"Psst, Robert! Can you keep a secret?" whispers Karen in the back row.
(Robert looks over his shoulder.) "Y-yeah, I-I can," he stutters anxiously.
"I think you love me," announces Karen.
"I love you!?" blurts out Robert, suddenly realizing that everyone has heard. He feels a headache coming on.
The class breaks out in songsong: "Robert loves Karen...and he's gonna marry her... Robert and Karen, sitting in a tree, talking about movies, and the Lincoln Square shul, he's gonna marry her when they're well out of school!"
"Silence, class. As I said, I'm not here for a long time, so please show some respect. Be polite. And save your comments for after class. Now, I'd like someone to name me some tips that you need to know about being a blogger."
A young man raises his hand.
"Yes, A Simple Jew?"
He speaks quietly but firmly. "One should use fewer words to have the most impact. One should speak from the heart, and if necessary and available, use citations."
"Very good. Now that young man, over there... Neil. Please answer the same question."
"One should certainly consider his or her audience. Pretend you're a teacher relating to students or a rabbi relating to his congregants. A few jokes can't hurt, either, nor can some references to classic TV shows and books."
"And you, Mr. Rubin. Put down that CD of Matisyahu; now is not music class. So what do you offer the class?"
"Um, LIFE is what you make it."
"I'll drink to that!" pipes up Air Time. "L'chaim! Hey, if we're drinking, maybe we should be eating too. How about some barbecued kishka and steaks?"
OrthoMom, Still Wonderin' and Just Passing Through start talking amongst themselves in the corner of the classroom.
"You three are being very rude. Avoid inside jokes -- you're alienating the rest of the class. Now, Mirty...where's sweet Mirty?"
"She went to Israel," advises Stacey. "We're gonna miss her for a couple of weeks, aren't we, guys?"
"Ye...s....s..." is heard in unison.
"Does anyone else have a comment to make about today's topic of discussion?"
"Do you people like outspokeness? I like outspokeness...I like honesty...I like to rant about my parents and the people around me. I'm very tongue-in-cheek, but I think people like that, too," offers up Yettabettaboo.
"Very, very good, class. I like what you had to say. Now we will have a very quick spelling lesson, so please take notes:
"Your does NOT MEAN you are. Your is the possessive form of something belonging to you. YOU'RE means you are. Get that straight.
"Its is the possessive form of something belonging to it. IT'S means it is.
"But I think the bell just rang, so I have to stop here for now. I didn't get to ask everyone their thoughts on blogging today-- sorry, Ink As Rain, Ralphie, and as well, there were a few students, such as Sara, missing from this session. No doubt Five Years Later we'll see a new stream of students interested in blogging. And if we're lucky, perhaps RenReb will be a guest speaker at the next class. Class dismissed...!"
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Transformers ... Take on a New Life
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It came to my attention recently that Steven Spielberg, who seems to have his hand in every pie in Hollywood, will be the executive producer of an upcoming movie based on the Transformers animated TV show, and Transformers toys.
These are exactly as named: robots who, when you twist and turn their body parts, become other objects -- eg. hiding behind the belly of a large robot might be a fire engine or a driver's head in a race car. It allows for hours of fun for young children and some adults, as well.
My oldest son, now 10, has had a few of these in his possession, and once in a while when I'd be scouring in his toy collection for something else, perhaps a missing Legos piece, I'd find a small Transformer. I'd sit there -- transfixed! -- as I'd make discoveries within this toy while manipulating it.
When I read today about the upcoming movie, I couldn't help but be reminded of a post I read late last summer on Seraphic Secret. Robert Avrech had talked about hosting Shabbat guests who were there for a Shabbaton, and how they'd been attracted to Robert's Emmy Award, as well as to the collection of Transformers that Ariel's room housed. He and Karen were somehow torn, feeling the need to perhaps let one of the Shabbaton's participants take one of the toys away with him, yet wanting to maintain their precious memories of their son and the collection he was so fond of, therefore not parting with them.
When I was in L.A. last month, I asked Robert if I could see Ariel's room; he gladly showed it to me and I saw all the seforim and all the young boy's and young adult's personal interests displayed, including the beloved Transformers.
Robert and Karen's sweet, young nephew, Yoni, visiting from Israel, had played with Ariel's Transformers throughout Shabbos. He, too, had been transfixed by them and the different personas they took on.
When Shabbos was over, Havdalah was done and extended family members and I were dispersing for the night, I saw Karen ask Yoni if he'd like to have one of the Transformers, telling the boy this particular Transformer's name and letting him know that his cousin Ariel had enjoyed the toy immensely. Robert stood nearby and reiterated that Ariel had a wonderful time playing with these toys.
Yoni's face lit up with this gift, this gift that would travel with the boy from California, to New York and back to Efrat, Israel. This gift that truly had been a gift from the heart.
Transformers... They have a way of transforming people, as well.
It came to my attention recently that Steven Spielberg, who seems to have his hand in every pie in Hollywood, will be the executive producer of an upcoming movie based on the Transformers animated TV show, and Transformers toys.
These are exactly as named: robots who, when you twist and turn their body parts, become other objects -- eg. hiding behind the belly of a large robot might be a fire engine or a driver's head in a race car. It allows for hours of fun for young children and some adults, as well.
My oldest son, now 10, has had a few of these in his possession, and once in a while when I'd be scouring in his toy collection for something else, perhaps a missing Legos piece, I'd find a small Transformer. I'd sit there -- transfixed! -- as I'd make discoveries within this toy while manipulating it.
When I read today about the upcoming movie, I couldn't help but be reminded of a post I read late last summer on Seraphic Secret. Robert Avrech had talked about hosting Shabbat guests who were there for a Shabbaton, and how they'd been attracted to Robert's Emmy Award, as well as to the collection of Transformers that Ariel's room housed. He and Karen were somehow torn, feeling the need to perhaps let one of the Shabbaton's participants take one of the toys away with him, yet wanting to maintain their precious memories of their son and the collection he was so fond of, therefore not parting with them.
When I was in L.A. last month, I asked Robert if I could see Ariel's room; he gladly showed it to me and I saw all the seforim and all the young boy's and young adult's personal interests displayed, including the beloved Transformers.
Robert and Karen's sweet, young nephew, Yoni, visiting from Israel, had played with Ariel's Transformers throughout Shabbos. He, too, had been transfixed by them and the different personas they took on.
When Shabbos was over, Havdalah was done and extended family members and I were dispersing for the night, I saw Karen ask Yoni if he'd like to have one of the Transformers, telling the boy this particular Transformer's name and letting him know that his cousin Ariel had enjoyed the toy immensely. Robert stood nearby and reiterated that Ariel had a wonderful time playing with these toys.
Yoni's face lit up with this gift, this gift that would travel with the boy from California, to New York and back to Efrat, Israel. This gift that truly had been a gift from the heart.
Transformers... They have a way of transforming people, as well.
I Need Some Color in My (Blogging) Life
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Okay, you masters of your own domains, could you please advise me on how to do something with Blogger.
When I first started my blog back in December, I had the color feature on my basic page template, alongside bf, itals, spell check, etc. I can't recall what button I hit that I shouldn't have, but I did hit something, and the color disappeared from my life.
I'd loved the color, which I could use for emphasis or creative tactics in my posts. And I've missed it ever since it went missing in action many months ago.
It's time to get that tool back. So could you please tell me how/where to place it back on my open blogger page masthead, so that I can begin to feature color in my posts?
Without that color button, I'm feeling blue, and a bit green with envy when I see other bloggers featuring color in their posts.
Help me get Technicolor (TM) back into my (blogging) life!
Okay, you masters of your own domains, could you please advise me on how to do something with Blogger.
When I first started my blog back in December, I had the color feature on my basic page template, alongside bf, itals, spell check, etc. I can't recall what button I hit that I shouldn't have, but I did hit something, and the color disappeared from my life.
I'd loved the color, which I could use for emphasis or creative tactics in my posts. And I've missed it ever since it went missing in action many months ago.
It's time to get that tool back. So could you please tell me how/where to place it back on my open blogger page masthead, so that I can begin to feature color in my posts?
Without that color button, I'm feeling blue, and a bit green with envy when I see other bloggers featuring color in their posts.
Help me get Technicolor (TM) back into my (blogging) life!
Shabbos: The Long & Short of It
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(cross-posted on THE JEWISH CONNECTION)
I like my Shabbos "shlufs" -- my two to three-hour afternoon naps...the time to catch up on all the sleep that I lost out on when I was at the computer late at night during the week.
Problem is: sometimes I get to nap, other times I don't.
Sometimes it's too busy in our household, with the children having guests, with my own children who have no guests needing to be entertained, with the parents having guests, with our family invited out, with our Shabbos afternoon outings to the nearby park, where the children play baseball or on the playground equipment and the adults catch up on the news of the week.
In our community, which is a bit widespread, we live at the top end, thus making it somewhat of a hike from shul to visit the TorontoPearl family. I grew up with a 25 minute walk to shul, so it's not a big stretch for me, but sometimes my two youngest children feel that they're on a walkathon...without anyone having sponsored them! It's a pleasure for them...and me...when they tote along friends from shul for lunch and for a Shabbos play date. The route home doesn't seem as long in the company of good and cherished friends.
When we adults invite friends for Shabbos lunch, we have to think long and hard over whom to invite: Will they make the walk? Will they want to stay till Shabbos is out, if they find it too long a walk back home?
I'm certainly not always in the entertaining mood (remember, I like those long Shabbos afternoon naps) but when we do host, it's such a nice thing. My husband and I work side by side in the kitchen to prepare the talked-about menu, with me often his sous-chef and he taking the lead. But this joint effort results in a lovely-set table, a delicious menu, and the feeling that "we're in this together!"
Sometimes he gets the compliments directed to him for things I made, sometimes I get the compliments for things made by him. We share the compliments, the spotlight and the company.
Today's company did make the walk even though the adults are plagued by knee joint problems and the like. These were people whom I don't see all that often, but who, when we do host them or if we end up at their Shabbos table, have a wonderful, time together. We are equally blessed that two of our sons are good friends.
Kiddush/Shabbos lunch became an afternoon stay. To hell with my nap, I thought, I'm really enjoying this conversation and the presence of these people. The afternoon stay became Seudat Shlishit, followed by the end of Shabbos. I even jokingly invited the couple and their kids to stay over for breakfast...as they were on such a roll.
But of course, I was being cheeky, as Sunday (it's now already Sunday as I type this) is a fast day.
Good food, friendly and down-to-earth families, hearty laughs, good conversation, lovely zmirot, and children running in and out of the room...help make "this day of rest" what it is: a pleasure.
(cross-posted on THE JEWISH CONNECTION)
I like my Shabbos "shlufs" -- my two to three-hour afternoon naps...the time to catch up on all the sleep that I lost out on when I was at the computer late at night during the week.
Problem is: sometimes I get to nap, other times I don't.
Sometimes it's too busy in our household, with the children having guests, with my own children who have no guests needing to be entertained, with the parents having guests, with our family invited out, with our Shabbos afternoon outings to the nearby park, where the children play baseball or on the playground equipment and the adults catch up on the news of the week.
In our community, which is a bit widespread, we live at the top end, thus making it somewhat of a hike from shul to visit the TorontoPearl family. I grew up with a 25 minute walk to shul, so it's not a big stretch for me, but sometimes my two youngest children feel that they're on a walkathon...without anyone having sponsored them! It's a pleasure for them...and me...when they tote along friends from shul for lunch and for a Shabbos play date. The route home doesn't seem as long in the company of good and cherished friends.
When we adults invite friends for Shabbos lunch, we have to think long and hard over whom to invite: Will they make the walk? Will they want to stay till Shabbos is out, if they find it too long a walk back home?
I'm certainly not always in the entertaining mood (remember, I like those long Shabbos afternoon naps) but when we do host, it's such a nice thing. My husband and I work side by side in the kitchen to prepare the talked-about menu, with me often his sous-chef and he taking the lead. But this joint effort results in a lovely-set table, a delicious menu, and the feeling that "we're in this together!"
Sometimes he gets the compliments directed to him for things I made, sometimes I get the compliments for things made by him. We share the compliments, the spotlight and the company.
Today's company did make the walk even though the adults are plagued by knee joint problems and the like. These were people whom I don't see all that often, but who, when we do host them or if we end up at their Shabbos table, have a wonderful, time together. We are equally blessed that two of our sons are good friends.
Kiddush/Shabbos lunch became an afternoon stay. To hell with my nap, I thought, I'm really enjoying this conversation and the presence of these people. The afternoon stay became Seudat Shlishit, followed by the end of Shabbos. I even jokingly invited the couple and their kids to stay over for breakfast...as they were on such a roll.
But of course, I was being cheeky, as Sunday (it's now already Sunday as I type this) is a fast day.
Good food, friendly and down-to-earth families, hearty laughs, good conversation, lovely zmirot, and children running in and out of the room...help make "this day of rest" what it is: a pleasure.
Friday, July 22, 2005
What's Up with AOL -- Part 2
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Hey, Randi, you got one message from me, but the second was delayed, delayed and then unable to be delivered.
Unable to deliver message to the following recipients, due to being unable to
connect successfully to the destination mail server.
Stupid AOL takes several days to try to relay a message and then throws it back in my face.
BTW, I'm still waiting for Rachel (thurbie18) to see my messages and respond.
Am I the only one who's having troubles with your e-mail addresses?
Hey, Randi, you got one message from me, but the second was delayed, delayed and then unable to be delivered.
Unable to deliver message to the following recipients, due to being unable to
connect successfully to the destination mail server.
Stupid AOL takes several days to try to relay a message and then throws it back in my face.
BTW, I'm still waiting for Rachel (thurbie18) to see my messages and respond.
Am I the only one who's having troubles with your e-mail addresses?
Mezuzah: The Straight and Narrow of It
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(cross-posted on The Jewish Connection)
I grew up in a household that had brass and olivewood mezuzot on its doorframes; some were old-looking, the likes of which you don't see too much anymore, others were more modern. But they were there and they sat at an angle, staring down at us, beckoning us to kiss them, or daring us not to.
Unfortunately, I wasn't always heeding the mezuzah's call for a kiss. But for sure upon traveling, I'd be reminded by my father, "Kiss the mezuzah when you leave the house." Those words were like a mantra, the action became a habit. Kiss the mezuzah before taking a trip; make extra sure to kiss it when you step back over your familiar and welcoming threshhold. Thank G-d that you were able to go in peace, and come home in peace, and be able to kiss the mezuzah once again. That was not said to me, but that was indeed the silent message.
When I married, I lived in an apartment for about a year and then we bought our first home. It was not considered a starter home, and thus was a considerable size with four levels. When the sale went through, one of my earliest thoughts was: "How many mezuzot will we need for this house?" It wasn't so much the mezuzah cover I was worried about, it was the klafs, the parchments, which can be costly once you have a number of mezuzot. That house, we decided, had twenty-one doorposts that would need to be covered, both literally and figuratively. The great debate came with the garage: Do we put one on, do we not? The "not" won out at that time.
It was a great pleasure over the years in that house to raise three children and train them in Yiddishkeit, holding them solidly in our arms as we positioned them close to the mezuzot so they could learn to kiss them. Each year the children grew taller and closer to the mezuzot...in more ways than the obvious.
When we moved homes a couple years ago, we decided to "straighten out our lives" by changing our mezuzot from sitting on an angle to sitting straight and tall. After all, this is the Sefardic minhag, custom, and although my husband was raised very Ashkenazic, he is Sefardic, and as I married him, I too am Sefardic.
These days there is a mezuzah on both our garage doors; these days, my children take great pleasure in being able to reach and touch the home's mezuzot by themselves; these days I look at our many mezuzot and think, "Don't forget to kiss the mezuzah on the way in...or out...from anywhere."
(cross-posted on The Jewish Connection)
I grew up in a household that had brass and olivewood mezuzot on its doorframes; some were old-looking, the likes of which you don't see too much anymore, others were more modern. But they were there and they sat at an angle, staring down at us, beckoning us to kiss them, or daring us not to.
Unfortunately, I wasn't always heeding the mezuzah's call for a kiss. But for sure upon traveling, I'd be reminded by my father, "Kiss the mezuzah when you leave the house." Those words were like a mantra, the action became a habit. Kiss the mezuzah before taking a trip; make extra sure to kiss it when you step back over your familiar and welcoming threshhold. Thank G-d that you were able to go in peace, and come home in peace, and be able to kiss the mezuzah once again. That was not said to me, but that was indeed the silent message.
When I married, I lived in an apartment for about a year and then we bought our first home. It was not considered a starter home, and thus was a considerable size with four levels. When the sale went through, one of my earliest thoughts was: "How many mezuzot will we need for this house?" It wasn't so much the mezuzah cover I was worried about, it was the klafs, the parchments, which can be costly once you have a number of mezuzot. That house, we decided, had twenty-one doorposts that would need to be covered, both literally and figuratively. The great debate came with the garage: Do we put one on, do we not? The "not" won out at that time.
It was a great pleasure over the years in that house to raise three children and train them in Yiddishkeit, holding them solidly in our arms as we positioned them close to the mezuzot so they could learn to kiss them. Each year the children grew taller and closer to the mezuzot...in more ways than the obvious.
When we moved homes a couple years ago, we decided to "straighten out our lives" by changing our mezuzot from sitting on an angle to sitting straight and tall. After all, this is the Sefardic minhag, custom, and although my husband was raised very Ashkenazic, he is Sefardic, and as I married him, I too am Sefardic.
These days there is a mezuzah on both our garage doors; these days, my children take great pleasure in being able to reach and touch the home's mezuzot by themselves; these days I look at our many mezuzot and think, "Don't forget to kiss the mezuzah on the way in...or out...from anywhere."
Thursday, July 21, 2005
The Concert
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I received this in an e-mail today, thought it was lovely and shared it with two very nice blogging pals of mine, who equally enjoyed the piece and let me know so. I've since decided I'll share it with the rest of you nice people out there.
Enjoy, and wishing you a Shabbat Shalom/Gut Shabbos.
The Concert
When the house lights dimmed and the concert was about to begin, the
mother returned to her seat and discovered that the child was missing.
Suddenly, the curtains parted and spotlights focused on the impressive
Steinway on stage.
In horror, the mother saw her little boy sitting at the keyboard,
innocently picking out "Twinkle,Twinkle Little Star."
At that moment, the great piano master made his entrance, quickly moved
to the piano, and whispered in the boy's ear, "Don't quit. Keep
playing."
Then, leaning over, Paderewski reached down with his left hand and began
filling in a bass part. Soon his right arm reached around to the other
side of the child, and he added a running obbligato.
Together, the old master and the young novice transformed what could
have been a frightening situation into a wonderfully creative
experience.
The audience was so mesmerized that they couldn't recall what else the
great master played. Only the classic, " Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."
Perhaps that's the way it is with God. What we can accomplish on our
own is hardly noteworthy. We try our best, but the results aren't
always graceful flowing music. However, with the hand of the Master,
our life's work can truly be beautiful.
The next time you set out to accomplish great feats, listen carefully.
You may hear the voice of the Master, whispering in your ear, "Don't
quit. Keep playing."
May you feel His arms around you and know that His hands are there,
helping you turn your feeble attempts into true masterpieces.
Remember, God doesn't seem to call the equipped, rather, He equips the
'called.' Life is more accurately measured by the lives you touch than by
the things you acquire. So touch someone by passing this little message
along. May God bless you and be with you always. And remember, "Don't
quit. Keep playing."
I received this in an e-mail today, thought it was lovely and shared it with two very nice blogging pals of mine, who equally enjoyed the piece and let me know so. I've since decided I'll share it with the rest of you nice people out there.
Enjoy, and wishing you a Shabbat Shalom/Gut Shabbos.
The Concert
When the house lights dimmed and the concert was about to begin, the
mother returned to her seat and discovered that the child was missing.
Suddenly, the curtains parted and spotlights focused on the impressive
Steinway on stage.
In horror, the mother saw her little boy sitting at the keyboard,
innocently picking out "Twinkle,Twinkle Little Star."
At that moment, the great piano master made his entrance, quickly moved
to the piano, and whispered in the boy's ear, "Don't quit. Keep
playing."
Then, leaning over, Paderewski reached down with his left hand and began
filling in a bass part. Soon his right arm reached around to the other
side of the child, and he added a running obbligato.
Together, the old master and the young novice transformed what could
have been a frightening situation into a wonderfully creative
experience.
The audience was so mesmerized that they couldn't recall what else the
great master played. Only the classic, " Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."
Perhaps that's the way it is with God. What we can accomplish on our
own is hardly noteworthy. We try our best, but the results aren't
always graceful flowing music. However, with the hand of the Master,
our life's work can truly be beautiful.
The next time you set out to accomplish great feats, listen carefully.
You may hear the voice of the Master, whispering in your ear, "Don't
quit. Keep playing."
May you feel His arms around you and know that His hands are there,
helping you turn your feeble attempts into true masterpieces.
Remember, God doesn't seem to call the equipped, rather, He equips the
'called.' Life is more accurately measured by the lives you touch than by
the things you acquire. So touch someone by passing this little message
along. May God bless you and be with you always. And remember, "Don't
quit. Keep playing."
"Hey, Look Me (and My Blog) Over..."
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Several blogs I visit post about the buzz words and phrases, namely the search words and phrases, that bring readers over to their blogs. I couldn't figure out how they got this information, but was too shy to ask it of anyone.
Today, I found out on my own, via my own sources. Recently, people were directed to Pearlies of Wisdom when they were in fact seeking out:
1. Tefillah HaDerech words
2. tizku l'mitzvos, definition
3. Sefardic + henna
4. gross pear body
Huh? What's that last one about, I wonder. But it makes me recall an incident that happened about 16 or 17 years ago.
I'd received an alumni newsletter from my college within the university I attended, U. of T. (University of Toronto). The newsletter included a questionnaire about what people were up to, where they were living, when they graduated, what degree/s they had, etc.
Having graduated in 1983, I decided it was time to pass along my personal info. I did, and in the next issue of the newsletter, it said: "Pear ___ graduated in 1983 with a B.A. in English & Jewish Studies from ___ College. She works as a proofreader for..."
What did this proofreader see in the copy? A TYPO. Suddenly I'd become a Pear?
So of course I had to respond, and the next issue of the newsletter saw something like: "I am not a pear, nor am I an apple... But I do proofread for a living..."
Several blogs I visit post about the buzz words and phrases, namely the search words and phrases, that bring readers over to their blogs. I couldn't figure out how they got this information, but was too shy to ask it of anyone.
Today, I found out on my own, via my own sources. Recently, people were directed to Pearlies of Wisdom when they were in fact seeking out:
1. Tefillah HaDerech words
2. tizku l'mitzvos, definition
3. Sefardic + henna
4. gross pear body
Huh? What's that last one about, I wonder. But it makes me recall an incident that happened about 16 or 17 years ago.
I'd received an alumni newsletter from my college within the university I attended, U. of T. (University of Toronto). The newsletter included a questionnaire about what people were up to, where they were living, when they graduated, what degree/s they had, etc.
Having graduated in 1983, I decided it was time to pass along my personal info. I did, and in the next issue of the newsletter, it said: "Pear ___ graduated in 1983 with a B.A. in English & Jewish Studies from ___ College. She works as a proofreader for..."
What did this proofreader see in the copy? A TYPO. Suddenly I'd become a Pear?
So of course I had to respond, and the next issue of the newsletter saw something like: "I am not a pear, nor am I an apple... But I do proofread for a living..."
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
"Dance with My Father"
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Yesterday, David Bogner of Treppenwitz had a wonderful post that inspired lots of comments. The post was about sad and depressing song lyrics, and the commenters -- myself included -- offered up a (vocal) range of some very sad, sad lyrics, by both familiar artists and some not-so-familiar ones.
This song, by the recently deceased singer-songwriter Luther Vandross, touches a lot of nerves. It's based on his personal story, but if you listen to it, you can apply the lyrics to yourselves. Hopefully all of you have fathers who are alive and well, with whom you can interact and still be your father's son or daughter. Or perhaps some of you have fathers with whom you have little or no contact for whatever reasons or grievances you share about past personal history. At some point in your life, you'll think about your father, your relationship with him and you'll pine (if only in a small corner of your heart) for what you once had together. Or at least I hope that will be the case. I hope it's never too late for you.
I am my father's daughter, I adore and honor him, and I am more than pleased to be able to dance with him. This morning, while driving into work, I was stopped at a red light. The light was opposite a local hospital where, two years ago during the SARS crisis, my father was taken by ambulance, and was lying unconcious in the ICU ward for several days. We thought he'd never come home again. We thank G-d that he did...and that I've been able to dance with him ever since.
Thank you, Luther, for writing such a beautiful song. May you rest in peace...
Dance with My Father -- Luther Vandross
Back when I was a child, before life removed all the innocence
My father would lift me high and dance with my mother and me and then
Spin me around 'til I fell asleep
Then up the stairs he would carry me
And I knew for sure I was loved
If I could get another chance, another walk, another dance with him
I'd play a song that would never, ever end
How I'd love, love, love
To dance with my father again
When I and my mother would disagree
To get my way, I would run from her to him
He'd make me laugh just to comfort me
Then finally make me do just what my mama said
Later that night when I was asleep
He left a dollar under my sheet
Never dreamed that he would be gone from me
If I could steal one final glance, one final step, one final dance with him
I'd play a song that would never, ever end
'Cause I'd love, love, love
To dance with my father again
Sometimes I'd listen outside her door
And I'd hear how my mother cried for him
I pray for her even more than me
I pray for her even more than me
I know I'm praying for much too much
But could you send back the only man she loved
I know you don't do it usually
But dear Lord she's dying
To dance with my father again
Every night I fall asleep and this is all I ever dream
Yesterday, David Bogner of Treppenwitz had a wonderful post that inspired lots of comments. The post was about sad and depressing song lyrics, and the commenters -- myself included -- offered up a (vocal) range of some very sad, sad lyrics, by both familiar artists and some not-so-familiar ones.
This song, by the recently deceased singer-songwriter Luther Vandross, touches a lot of nerves. It's based on his personal story, but if you listen to it, you can apply the lyrics to yourselves. Hopefully all of you have fathers who are alive and well, with whom you can interact and still be your father's son or daughter. Or perhaps some of you have fathers with whom you have little or no contact for whatever reasons or grievances you share about past personal history. At some point in your life, you'll think about your father, your relationship with him and you'll pine (if only in a small corner of your heart) for what you once had together. Or at least I hope that will be the case. I hope it's never too late for you.
I am my father's daughter, I adore and honor him, and I am more than pleased to be able to dance with him. This morning, while driving into work, I was stopped at a red light. The light was opposite a local hospital where, two years ago during the SARS crisis, my father was taken by ambulance, and was lying unconcious in the ICU ward for several days. We thought he'd never come home again. We thank G-d that he did...and that I've been able to dance with him ever since.
Thank you, Luther, for writing such a beautiful song. May you rest in peace...
Dance with My Father -- Luther Vandross
Back when I was a child, before life removed all the innocence
My father would lift me high and dance with my mother and me and then
Spin me around 'til I fell asleep
Then up the stairs he would carry me
And I knew for sure I was loved
If I could get another chance, another walk, another dance with him
I'd play a song that would never, ever end
How I'd love, love, love
To dance with my father again
When I and my mother would disagree
To get my way, I would run from her to him
He'd make me laugh just to comfort me
Then finally make me do just what my mama said
Later that night when I was asleep
He left a dollar under my sheet
Never dreamed that he would be gone from me
If I could steal one final glance, one final step, one final dance with him
I'd play a song that would never, ever end
'Cause I'd love, love, love
To dance with my father again
Sometimes I'd listen outside her door
And I'd hear how my mother cried for him
I pray for her even more than me
I pray for her even more than me
I know I'm praying for much too much
But could you send back the only man she loved
I know you don't do it usually
But dear Lord she's dying
To dance with my father again
Every night I fall asleep and this is all I ever dream
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
What's Up with AOL...or Need I Say Down?
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Most recently I've had trouble sending return messages to U.S. folks with AOL accounts. I'd send a message and a day or two later would get a "delayed" message and "no need to resend your message". Then a couple of days later, I'd get a "failed" message, that "couldn't connect to server."
So my messages have gone unread...
I even had to use someone's comments forum to ask her to send me a message, using a different e-mail address, which she did.
I am now using my own blog to appeal to cruisin-mom (Randi W.) and Rachel (thurbie18) to send me messages with a different e-mail address, if possible. I've responded to you two ladies at your aol addresses and my messages came back to me. (I don't want to use Robert's comments forum to write to you.)
Please know that I'm courteous and do respond to e-mails and comments, but aol doesn't seem to like me very much these past few days. Hopefully you two don't share the same sentiment!
Most recently I've had trouble sending return messages to U.S. folks with AOL accounts. I'd send a message and a day or two later would get a "delayed" message and "no need to resend your message". Then a couple of days later, I'd get a "failed" message, that "couldn't connect to server."
So my messages have gone unread...
I even had to use someone's comments forum to ask her to send me a message, using a different e-mail address, which she did.
I am now using my own blog to appeal to cruisin-mom (Randi W.) and Rachel (thurbie18) to send me messages with a different e-mail address, if possible. I've responded to you two ladies at your aol addresses and my messages came back to me. (I don't want to use Robert's comments forum to write to you.)
Please know that I'm courteous and do respond to e-mails and comments, but aol doesn't seem to like me very much these past few days. Hopefully you two don't share the same sentiment!
Bizarro World
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Your idea of odd probably differs from my sense of odd. But this is what I saw this morning, and it struck me as belonging to a "bizarro world."
I was driving in to work and was stopped at a red light. Looking in my rearview mirror, I saw a guy in a small car behind me. His hand was hanging out the window and there was a cigarette held between his fingers. I then looked at the car alongside me and saw a guy, his hand hanging out the window, a cigarette held between his fingers.
Went back to my rearview. Guy behind me now was puffing on his cigarette. Quick glance at passenger-side window. Guy beside me was now puffing on his cigarette.
Rearview mirror. Guy behind me was holding a CoffeeTime coffee cup to his lips and sipping.
Side window. Guy beside me was holding a CoffeeTime coffee cup to his lips and sipping.
Rearview mirror. Guy removed coffee cup from his lips and it was out of sight.
Side window. Guy was just removing his coffee cup from his lips and putting cup in a holder.
Light turns green. I leave Bizarro World behind and wonder who was the great choreographer/stage director of this recent scene.
Your idea of odd probably differs from my sense of odd. But this is what I saw this morning, and it struck me as belonging to a "bizarro world."
I was driving in to work and was stopped at a red light. Looking in my rearview mirror, I saw a guy in a small car behind me. His hand was hanging out the window and there was a cigarette held between his fingers. I then looked at the car alongside me and saw a guy, his hand hanging out the window, a cigarette held between his fingers.
Went back to my rearview. Guy behind me now was puffing on his cigarette. Quick glance at passenger-side window. Guy beside me was now puffing on his cigarette.
Rearview mirror. Guy behind me was holding a CoffeeTime coffee cup to his lips and sipping.
Side window. Guy beside me was holding a CoffeeTime coffee cup to his lips and sipping.
Rearview mirror. Guy removed coffee cup from his lips and it was out of sight.
Side window. Guy was just removing his coffee cup from his lips and putting cup in a holder.
Light turns green. I leave Bizarro World behind and wonder who was the great choreographer/stage director of this recent scene.
Monday, July 18, 2005
To Give Compliments Is Lovely; To Ignore Them Seems Unrefined
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I tend to be generous – and most sincere – with my compliments. After all, why not perk up someone’s day or ego a bit? Why keep my observations silent, when airing them might help put a smile on the next person’s face or give their step a lilt?
It doesn’t cost anything to say, “That looks good on you”; “I like it that you...”; “Your writing reminds me of the great writer...”
I might even say something to a stranger in a public place – “I saw what you did; it was so nice of you to...”; “I like your...where did you get them?”
A compliment can be an ice breaker, but more importantly, it is a path that’s forged from my heart to yours.
Out there in blogland, I am complimentary too. Why should a distant, faceless reader be considered any differently than a friend, family member or co-worker in my life?
I give compliments when I think they’re deserved. Doing so has even created wonderful offline correspondence for me with fellow bloggers.
Sometimes compliments are returned, but in fact don’t need to be. Life isn’t about “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.” But it is nice to at least get a thank-you or acknowledgment when a compliment has been given.
I tend to be generous – and most sincere – with my compliments. After all, why not perk up someone’s day or ego a bit? Why keep my observations silent, when airing them might help put a smile on the next person’s face or give their step a lilt?
It doesn’t cost anything to say, “That looks good on you”; “I like it that you...”; “Your writing reminds me of the great writer...”
I might even say something to a stranger in a public place – “I saw what you did; it was so nice of you to...”; “I like your...where did you get them?”
A compliment can be an ice breaker, but more importantly, it is a path that’s forged from my heart to yours.
Out there in blogland, I am complimentary too. Why should a distant, faceless reader be considered any differently than a friend, family member or co-worker in my life?
I give compliments when I think they’re deserved. Doing so has even created wonderful offline correspondence for me with fellow bloggers.
Sometimes compliments are returned, but in fact don’t need to be. Life isn’t about “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.” But it is nice to at least get a thank-you or acknowledgment when a compliment has been given.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
"A Fine Romance..."
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In tribute to my last two posts, I am coining this one "A Fine Romance"-- Michael Feinstein does a lovely rendition of this (Dorothy Fields-Jerome Kern) song, and I was talking about romance novels earlier today.
I know a handful of parents who kiss their children on the lips. Such is not the case in this family. But most recently, for fun, my youngest decided, "Let's kiss on the lips." And so we made a game of it -- moving forward then N. quickly retreating as I puckered up in comical fashion. Hysterical laughter breaks out on his and my part as our game repeats itself. But finally he "moves in for the kill." Steadily...cautiously...both eyes open.
The kiss comes...followed by his loud pronouncement: "I think this means we're in love!"
In tribute to my last two posts, I am coining this one "A Fine Romance"-- Michael Feinstein does a lovely rendition of this (Dorothy Fields-Jerome Kern) song, and I was talking about romance novels earlier today.
I know a handful of parents who kiss their children on the lips. Such is not the case in this family. But most recently, for fun, my youngest decided, "Let's kiss on the lips." And so we made a game of it -- moving forward then N. quickly retreating as I puckered up in comical fashion. Hysterical laughter breaks out on his and my part as our game repeats itself. But finally he "moves in for the kill." Steadily...cautiously...both eyes open.
The kiss comes...followed by his loud pronouncement: "I think this means we're in love!"
Romance Is Romance Is Romance
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I copy edit romance books. Once upon a time, as a young teen, I read these same books, very happily toting home stacks upon stacks from the public library. In those days, the books were gentle, sweet love stories that featured doctor-nurse stories, or holiday romance stories, and I escaped into British operating rooms or Greek isles when reading these stories.
Nowadays these stories are not as sweet all the time -- yes, there are still those British books or the holiday stories, but in between we have intrigue, chick lit, "kick-ass" heroine stories, mysteries, historicals, fantasy, down-home America stories...and Christian romance.
For the past few years I've had to work with the Bible near at hand, checking references and Biblical quotes in both the Old and New Testaments. Aside from always checking the night table drawer at a hotel/motel for a copy of the Gideon Bible, I'd never had reasons to consult the New Testament, and I suddenly became good friends with the many books in that Bible! The four apostles and I meet on a regular basis and we're on a first name basis: John, Luke, etc., not Saint John, Saint Luke. I respect them in their belief and they respect me in my belief!
Imagine a romance book based on "tsniusdik" (modest) values: I am a censor board for what is deemed Christian and question un-Christian-like behaviors, references, comments, etc. Working on these books is a very eye-opening experience, as I realize that people truly live by the values exemplified in the stories; they talk like the characters do and they think like the characters think.
I also freelance for a U.S. based publisher and work on African-American romances. What makes African-American romances any different than any other romance? NOTHING, except the cultural references: songs and the singer/songwriters, names of fashion designers and publications, some of the regional lingo...but otherwise, these books are no different. Of course, cover art and the intended readership and marketplace sometimes differ than other mass-market media products, but when I read these books, I try to leave "color consciousness" out of my work.
It would be nice if color distinctions in the mass-market media place did not have to be made. After all, romance books should be deemed the same as "good lovin'" books and the same as "love of G-d, love of man" books.
And if you don't believe me, pick up a variety of romance books, and do some research of your own. You might just love the variety of books you read.
I copy edit romance books. Once upon a time, as a young teen, I read these same books, very happily toting home stacks upon stacks from the public library. In those days, the books were gentle, sweet love stories that featured doctor-nurse stories, or holiday romance stories, and I escaped into British operating rooms or Greek isles when reading these stories.
Nowadays these stories are not as sweet all the time -- yes, there are still those British books or the holiday stories, but in between we have intrigue, chick lit, "kick-ass" heroine stories, mysteries, historicals, fantasy, down-home America stories...and Christian romance.
For the past few years I've had to work with the Bible near at hand, checking references and Biblical quotes in both the Old and New Testaments. Aside from always checking the night table drawer at a hotel/motel for a copy of the Gideon Bible, I'd never had reasons to consult the New Testament, and I suddenly became good friends with the many books in that Bible! The four apostles and I meet on a regular basis and we're on a first name basis: John, Luke, etc., not Saint John, Saint Luke. I respect them in their belief and they respect me in my belief!
Imagine a romance book based on "tsniusdik" (modest) values: I am a censor board for what is deemed Christian and question un-Christian-like behaviors, references, comments, etc. Working on these books is a very eye-opening experience, as I realize that people truly live by the values exemplified in the stories; they talk like the characters do and they think like the characters think.
I also freelance for a U.S. based publisher and work on African-American romances. What makes African-American romances any different than any other romance? NOTHING, except the cultural references: songs and the singer/songwriters, names of fashion designers and publications, some of the regional lingo...but otherwise, these books are no different. Of course, cover art and the intended readership and marketplace sometimes differ than other mass-market media products, but when I read these books, I try to leave "color consciousness" out of my work.
It would be nice if color distinctions in the mass-market media place did not have to be made. After all, romance books should be deemed the same as "good lovin'" books and the same as "love of G-d, love of man" books.
And if you don't believe me, pick up a variety of romance books, and do some research of your own. You might just love the variety of books you read.
Tales from the Toilet
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Having just returned from Florida last week, I made this observation. I found the public bathrooms in Universal Studios/Islands of Adventure to be quite clean...but please explain something to me.
Why do so many of these bathrooms have automatic-flush toilets but non-automated sinks or hand dryers? Okay, so where's the logic? I don't have to touch a toilet handle, but I do have to touch the taps and then the paper towels. Did someone think the situation through?
I first encountered automatic flush toilets and automatic sinks way up in the Swiss Alps at some public rest room, when I was in my teens. I was fascinated by them, especially the automatic flush toilet, and thought these Swiss were on to something good...
But in general, why do these automatic flush toilets, and so many other regular ones, sound like a great rush of water is coming at you, when you flush. I've had my two youngest freak out at the sudden sound of Niagara Falls rushing up from their behind. It's powerful-sounding and frankly, scary-sounding.
My youngest child, a five-year-old, never understands why, when we're in a public place and it's only he and I, why we have to go into the washroom marked LADIES. "I'm not a gehrl," he tries to convince me in his Scottish-sounding brogue. I try to explain that as a 5-year-old boy, he can still come into a ladies' washroom, but as a 43-year-old female, I can certainly not go into a washroom marked MEN...and he can't go alone into a public washroom, either. I think he's not entirely convinced...
And now I need to take a census while I'm on the topic of toilets. How many of you women reading this -- if any -- have ever tried to bypass a long lineup leading into a women's public washroom, and gone into the men's washroom when there were no men around? Or if you haven't done so, would you consider doing it?
Flush once if the answer is yes, twice if the answer is no. Then wash your hands with soap and make sure not to touch anything on your way out!
Having just returned from Florida last week, I made this observation. I found the public bathrooms in Universal Studios/Islands of Adventure to be quite clean...but please explain something to me.
Why do so many of these bathrooms have automatic-flush toilets but non-automated sinks or hand dryers? Okay, so where's the logic? I don't have to touch a toilet handle, but I do have to touch the taps and then the paper towels. Did someone think the situation through?
I first encountered automatic flush toilets and automatic sinks way up in the Swiss Alps at some public rest room, when I was in my teens. I was fascinated by them, especially the automatic flush toilet, and thought these Swiss were on to something good...
But in general, why do these automatic flush toilets, and so many other regular ones, sound like a great rush of water is coming at you, when you flush. I've had my two youngest freak out at the sudden sound of Niagara Falls rushing up from their behind. It's powerful-sounding and frankly, scary-sounding.
My youngest child, a five-year-old, never understands why, when we're in a public place and it's only he and I, why we have to go into the washroom marked LADIES. "I'm not a gehrl," he tries to convince me in his Scottish-sounding brogue. I try to explain that as a 5-year-old boy, he can still come into a ladies' washroom, but as a 43-year-old female, I can certainly not go into a washroom marked MEN...and he can't go alone into a public washroom, either. I think he's not entirely convinced...
And now I need to take a census while I'm on the topic of toilets. How many of you women reading this -- if any -- have ever tried to bypass a long lineup leading into a women's public washroom, and gone into the men's washroom when there were no men around? Or if you haven't done so, would you consider doing it?
Flush once if the answer is yes, twice if the answer is no. Then wash your hands with soap and make sure not to touch anything on your way out!
A Finagler's Fine-Tuning
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...Okay, so Michael Feinstein and Lifestyles Magazine were meant to be a shidduch.
First things first: write a proposal letter to the Lifestyles editor. So I sat and composed an award-winning letter of who Michael was and why he should be featured in the magazine. And then I wrote a (equally award-winning) presentation of who I was, what I did and what I'd written before -- not much, anyways.
But I got a green light, and that's all that mattered!
Next thing to do was find out how to contact Michael's people to arrange for an interview with him -- it was September now and I had about a six-week lead time, enough I figured to get things arranged.
First I contacted the Toronto venue where he was to be performing and they gave me the record company name. The record company provided me with the management company in L.A., and the management company got a letter from me. (I am much better in writing than I am on the phone, and I look for every excuse to write letters or e-mails so as not to have to telephone places)I was asked to forward a sample copy of the magazine, which I did, and then got the green light from them...and a press kit and a CD sampler. I was told that closer to the time, I'd be getting a call from the record company to schedule the actual interview with Michael. I was elated; I was on a roll.
I incorporated the information from the press kit, the influence of Michael's music playing in the background, and did loads of online research at home and at the public library, finding press clippings, etc. I'd suddenly became an expert on the life and times of Michael Feinstein up until that point.
The L.A.-management company heard from me again when I requested photos to accompany the piece, and although they had a standard publicity shot or two, it was the "back home, growing up" photos I was seeking for such an in-depth piece. And so, my name and number and request was passed on to the next best person, Michael's mom, Mazie Feinstein. She contacted me one day, asked what sorts of photos I'd need and said she'd send an envelope to me but would need them back. Of course she'd need them back: there was Michael with Liza Minnelli (she'd sort of helped him with a Hollywood entree into the music scene), Michael with presidents, Michael with Ira Gershwin, Michael as a little boy with microphone in hand and singing at a family simcha back in Ohio.
So I'd done the prep work and then the week of the concert, I got a call with a place and time to meet Michael: 12 noon, Four Seasons Hotel, the day after the concert, for a 20 minute personal interview. I began to wonder: Did I bite off more than I can chew? Yes, I'd come out of left field to land a magazine article in a glossy-pseudo international prestigious magazine; I'd managed to make all the right connections to land an interview with someone whose music I adored (and whose looks weren't bad, either!);I'd prepared; knew tons about his background; had a list of questions ready; microcassette player was ready -- I should be ready. But was I really going to be ready?
Okay, the concert came and went, and I loved it so much -- Michael's talent for musical interpretation of old standards, his interjection with personal stories of great American songwriters, and his natural charisma entrance an audience of fifty or a thousand people. That in itself is a talent.
Taking the subway downtown to Michael's hotel, all I could think was: Will my tape recorder work? Will I get all the information I'm seeking? Will I come across as a total newbie at this? And lastly: What the hell did I get myself into?
I arrived at the front desk, asked for his room number and called from a house phone. He answered, I announced myself and he told me to just give him a few minutes and then come up to the room. I did as asked and then eyeing my watch a few times, decided that enough time had passed: I was ready for Michael and Michael was ready for me!
He answered the door, let me in, asked if I wanted/needed anything, to which this nervous Pearl replied jokingly, but in more of a murmur, "A stiff drink." I really wanted to say, "Could we sing a duet?" His room was a suite that had a sitting area and separate bedroom. The sitting area had a piano against the wall, where I guess he'd been practicing before the concert, and I wanted to "make beautiful music" together with Michael Feinstein!
In any case, he was very congenial, asking if I preferred to sit on the couch to ask my questions, or at the round table...it turned into a round table discussion...and the assigned 20 minutes turned into 40 minutes (I think generally unheard-of in the realm of journalistic interviews...personal interviews often also being out of the norm). We were interrupted by a phone call, which happened to be the next appointment for Michael. I was very fortunate I'd been granted a face-to-face interview rather than a phone interview.
The interview, the concert, the idea and the following through of my idea, dealing with Michael's mother at least a couple of times (I called her again after the interview to get some more "insider information" on her son), and seeing my name and my article and the photos I'd managed to get to accompany the piece were a WONDERFUL and memorable experience for me. It didn't hurt that the particular issue the article finally appeared in had a cover story of the Lubavitcher Rebbe (he was still alive at the time), thus making it somewhat of a "keeper" issue for many more people than just myself!
More than anything, I think I was most proud of the fact that I'd had one of my offbeat ideas, had done everything possible to accomplish what I'd set out to do, and accomplished it. Yes, I was insecure in many ways about it, continually doubting the events I'd set in motion, but pleased with the final results and the more-than-personal touch I'd brought to Michael Feinstein's story.
Every now and again, I pull out that issue of Lifestyles Magazine, reread the beautiful story/interview with the late, great Rebbe Schneerson, and then turn several more pages and admire my own words, knowing that behind every story is another story just waiting to be told...
...Okay, so Michael Feinstein and Lifestyles Magazine were meant to be a shidduch.
First things first: write a proposal letter to the Lifestyles editor. So I sat and composed an award-winning letter of who Michael was and why he should be featured in the magazine. And then I wrote a (equally award-winning) presentation of who I was, what I did and what I'd written before -- not much, anyways.
But I got a green light, and that's all that mattered!
Next thing to do was find out how to contact Michael's people to arrange for an interview with him -- it was September now and I had about a six-week lead time, enough I figured to get things arranged.
First I contacted the Toronto venue where he was to be performing and they gave me the record company name. The record company provided me with the management company in L.A., and the management company got a letter from me. (I am much better in writing than I am on the phone, and I look for every excuse to write letters or e-mails so as not to have to telephone places)I was asked to forward a sample copy of the magazine, which I did, and then got the green light from them...and a press kit and a CD sampler. I was told that closer to the time, I'd be getting a call from the record company to schedule the actual interview with Michael. I was elated; I was on a roll.
I incorporated the information from the press kit, the influence of Michael's music playing in the background, and did loads of online research at home and at the public library, finding press clippings, etc. I'd suddenly became an expert on the life and times of Michael Feinstein up until that point.
The L.A.-management company heard from me again when I requested photos to accompany the piece, and although they had a standard publicity shot or two, it was the "back home, growing up" photos I was seeking for such an in-depth piece. And so, my name and number and request was passed on to the next best person, Michael's mom, Mazie Feinstein. She contacted me one day, asked what sorts of photos I'd need and said she'd send an envelope to me but would need them back. Of course she'd need them back: there was Michael with Liza Minnelli (she'd sort of helped him with a Hollywood entree into the music scene), Michael with presidents, Michael with Ira Gershwin, Michael as a little boy with microphone in hand and singing at a family simcha back in Ohio.
So I'd done the prep work and then the week of the concert, I got a call with a place and time to meet Michael: 12 noon, Four Seasons Hotel, the day after the concert, for a 20 minute personal interview. I began to wonder: Did I bite off more than I can chew? Yes, I'd come out of left field to land a magazine article in a glossy-pseudo international prestigious magazine; I'd managed to make all the right connections to land an interview with someone whose music I adored (and whose looks weren't bad, either!);I'd prepared; knew tons about his background; had a list of questions ready; microcassette player was ready -- I should be ready. But was I really going to be ready?
Okay, the concert came and went, and I loved it so much -- Michael's talent for musical interpretation of old standards, his interjection with personal stories of great American songwriters, and his natural charisma entrance an audience of fifty or a thousand people. That in itself is a talent.
Taking the subway downtown to Michael's hotel, all I could think was: Will my tape recorder work? Will I get all the information I'm seeking? Will I come across as a total newbie at this? And lastly: What the hell did I get myself into?
I arrived at the front desk, asked for his room number and called from a house phone. He answered, I announced myself and he told me to just give him a few minutes and then come up to the room. I did as asked and then eyeing my watch a few times, decided that enough time had passed: I was ready for Michael and Michael was ready for me!
He answered the door, let me in, asked if I wanted/needed anything, to which this nervous Pearl replied jokingly, but in more of a murmur, "A stiff drink." I really wanted to say, "Could we sing a duet?" His room was a suite that had a sitting area and separate bedroom. The sitting area had a piano against the wall, where I guess he'd been practicing before the concert, and I wanted to "make beautiful music" together with Michael Feinstein!
In any case, he was very congenial, asking if I preferred to sit on the couch to ask my questions, or at the round table...it turned into a round table discussion...and the assigned 20 minutes turned into 40 minutes (I think generally unheard-of in the realm of journalistic interviews...personal interviews often also being out of the norm). We were interrupted by a phone call, which happened to be the next appointment for Michael. I was very fortunate I'd been granted a face-to-face interview rather than a phone interview.
The interview, the concert, the idea and the following through of my idea, dealing with Michael's mother at least a couple of times (I called her again after the interview to get some more "insider information" on her son), and seeing my name and my article and the photos I'd managed to get to accompany the piece were a WONDERFUL and memorable experience for me. It didn't hurt that the particular issue the article finally appeared in had a cover story of the Lubavitcher Rebbe (he was still alive at the time), thus making it somewhat of a "keeper" issue for many more people than just myself!
More than anything, I think I was most proud of the fact that I'd had one of my offbeat ideas, had done everything possible to accomplish what I'd set out to do, and accomplished it. Yes, I was insecure in many ways about it, continually doubting the events I'd set in motion, but pleased with the final results and the more-than-personal touch I'd brought to Michael Feinstein's story.
Every now and again, I pull out that issue of Lifestyles Magazine, reread the beautiful story/interview with the late, great Rebbe Schneerson, and then turn several more pages and admire my own words, knowing that behind every story is another story just waiting to be told...
Friday, July 15, 2005
The Finagler in Me
Blogroll Me!
Whether you choose to believe it or not, I am very much an insecure person, and could stand to take assertiveness training courses.
I certainly have changed over the years and have managed to gain some assertiveness along my life's journey, but I'm still not where I should be on a scale of 1 - 10 in decisiveness and security.
HOWEVER...when something is in my personal interest, "assertive" becomes my middle name. Perhaps it goes hand in hand with my given middle name, Chaja (the old European version of Chaya), which means "living creature/beast." But I do not become a beast in how I conduct myself; I just become very resourceful...and in a sense, a finagler. I've discovered that if I can first convince myself that I can do something, then I can convince the person it involves.
Case in point: JOURNALISM. I am not a journalist; I write, but do not make my living as a writer. I didn't study creative writing in university, I studied literature. So how do I know how to be a journalist? Trial and error.
Some years ago or so, I had this mad crush on Michael Feinstein (only later discovering that he was not my type, so to speak), a pianist-singer who lived for a number of years with Ira Gershwin and his wife and worked cataloguing George and Ira Gershwin's music. Michael started as a lounge singer, but eventually began to give concerts in large concert halls and record records and tapes. (pre CD days) His piano music was the American standards; his voice was that of a crooner that lulls you in your seat and makes you sway from side to side with your eyes closed.
I'd heard that Michael was going to be giving a concert -- his first, I believe in Toronto -- and I planned to be there. After securing a friend to go with me, and buying tickets, I had a brainstorm: Maybe I could finagle an interview with Michael. Maybe I could find a magazine to pitch the story to. And then I knew the perfect publication -- a glossy, society-type, Jewish magazine that is out of Toronto, but gathers stories from the States, and elsewhere, and sends the magazine around the world. The magazine publishes bio/interviews of celebrities in the fields of media, medicine, business, politics, etc. Perhaps you've seen it: Lifestyles Magazine.
Michael Feinstein and Lifestyles Magazine were -- in my eyes -- a perfect match. But could I, a non-journalist, just a sometime-published writer/poet, convince the editor of that, as well as convince him that I could produce a top-rate article for his fancy-schmancy publication?
**** stay tuned for more in this finagler's story....
Whether you choose to believe it or not, I am very much an insecure person, and could stand to take assertiveness training courses.
I certainly have changed over the years and have managed to gain some assertiveness along my life's journey, but I'm still not where I should be on a scale of 1 - 10 in decisiveness and security.
HOWEVER...when something is in my personal interest, "assertive" becomes my middle name. Perhaps it goes hand in hand with my given middle name, Chaja (the old European version of Chaya), which means "living creature/beast." But I do not become a beast in how I conduct myself; I just become very resourceful...and in a sense, a finagler. I've discovered that if I can first convince myself that I can do something, then I can convince the person it involves.
Case in point: JOURNALISM. I am not a journalist; I write, but do not make my living as a writer. I didn't study creative writing in university, I studied literature. So how do I know how to be a journalist? Trial and error.
Some years ago or so, I had this mad crush on Michael Feinstein (only later discovering that he was not my type, so to speak), a pianist-singer who lived for a number of years with Ira Gershwin and his wife and worked cataloguing George and Ira Gershwin's music. Michael started as a lounge singer, but eventually began to give concerts in large concert halls and record records and tapes. (pre CD days) His piano music was the American standards; his voice was that of a crooner that lulls you in your seat and makes you sway from side to side with your eyes closed.
I'd heard that Michael was going to be giving a concert -- his first, I believe in Toronto -- and I planned to be there. After securing a friend to go with me, and buying tickets, I had a brainstorm: Maybe I could finagle an interview with Michael. Maybe I could find a magazine to pitch the story to. And then I knew the perfect publication -- a glossy, society-type, Jewish magazine that is out of Toronto, but gathers stories from the States, and elsewhere, and sends the magazine around the world. The magazine publishes bio/interviews of celebrities in the fields of media, medicine, business, politics, etc. Perhaps you've seen it: Lifestyles Magazine.
Michael Feinstein and Lifestyles Magazine were -- in my eyes -- a perfect match. But could I, a non-journalist, just a sometime-published writer/poet, convince the editor of that, as well as convince him that I could produce a top-rate article for his fancy-schmancy publication?
**** stay tuned for more in this finagler's story....
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Ask Not What Your Blog Can Do for You...
Blogroll Me!
Are you a blogging idiot like me who goes back time and time again to a favorite blog to read if there are any additional posts throughout the day, to read any additional comments on that post, and to see if your own comments to a post are acknowledged?
If you're sitting there nodding your head no, well I think you're lying. I can't be unique in that way or the only blogging idiot...can I? Many of you might be able to tell by site meters if I've continually visited your blog, and nine times out of ten, I have. I feel that with blogs I've discovered a new form of entertainment; months ago I abandoned the minimal TV watching I was doing, in favor of my computer screen. So imagine my flipping through blogs is the equivalent of channel surfing. Is there something good on at this hour? Should I "turn the channel"? Oh, maybe I'll come back to it later...
I said many posts ago that oftentimes the comments thread are even more interesting and entertaining than the accompanying posts. This is how I came to discover Dr. Bean of Kerckhoff Coffeehouse, and whom I visited in California last month -- I saw his comments on Psycho Toddler I also met PsychoToddler last month the same day I arrived home from California) and there was such a chemistry between the two men, such a unique level of wit/humor/medical knowledge, that I thought they were established friends who might've gone to med school together but were just separated by distance. That couldn't be further from the truth; they are just two guys who both happen to be doctors of internal medicine, family men, Orthodox Jews, both with great senses of humor, high intelligence and wielding the weapon of wit and eloquence!
On other blogs that I tune into, I watch the patterns of newcomers, as they announce their "newness" to the blogger and his readers, but later jump in with both feet to comment continuously and have a true online discourse throughout one or several posts. I have always been an observer of people; I've learned that I do not have to do this in person but can sit at my computer and watch total personalities unfold before my eyes; I can accurately pinpoint character traits, quirks and grievances of people way across the other side of the continent, or even across the world.
A post is a post, but sometimes the comments forum is a multilayered story, a story within a story, if you will. There might be tangents, but the underlying original message of the post will always resurface for the comments readers. Look at my favorite blog, Seraphic Secret, as Robert and Karen Avrech, through posts and comments, slowly unravel for their readers a most entertaining story of their courtship and Robert's longstanding "love from afar" for Karen Singer, who (thank G-d) in time became Karen Avrech -- oh, DOCTOR Karen Avrech!
And then there's the well-read (he is a well-read individual, and his blog is well-read by countless numbers of people) David Bogner of Treppenwitz. David has developed a wonderful style of writing that draws people in, making them want to comment. And even if David has 45 comments in one day (I check his comments throughout the day), for example, he is a most gracious blogging host. He will thank each and every one of us -- BY NAME! -- for our comments, by commenting on our comments. How nice is that?! I think (and here is where you also have to be honest) that we commenters, whether with David's posts or with someone else's, enjoy this acknowledgment. Neither the blogger's writing is in vain (as he knows he has a reading audience) nor is the commenter's writing in vain (as it is publicly acknowledged).
Admit it -- and I could name names here because I see that certain people are also frequent flyers to certain blogs; I bump into them a few times in the course of the day -- don't you like that little public pat on the head from David, or from PsychoToddler, or Robert, or from Mirty, Chaim, or Jack? I know that I do... but that is certainly not why I comment on people's posts; I comment because I have something I want to say...and sometimes our own personal soapbox just isn't the right place at the right time; sometimes we need to find another corner where we can rant, entertain, give advice and suggestions or just make our presence known.
...Ask What You Can Do For Your Blog.
You don't have to do anything; you all have managed to do it real well as far as I can tell. Keep up the good work!
Are you a blogging idiot like me who goes back time and time again to a favorite blog to read if there are any additional posts throughout the day, to read any additional comments on that post, and to see if your own comments to a post are acknowledged?
If you're sitting there nodding your head no, well I think you're lying. I can't be unique in that way or the only blogging idiot...can I? Many of you might be able to tell by site meters if I've continually visited your blog, and nine times out of ten, I have. I feel that with blogs I've discovered a new form of entertainment; months ago I abandoned the minimal TV watching I was doing, in favor of my computer screen. So imagine my flipping through blogs is the equivalent of channel surfing. Is there something good on at this hour? Should I "turn the channel"? Oh, maybe I'll come back to it later...
I said many posts ago that oftentimes the comments thread are even more interesting and entertaining than the accompanying posts. This is how I came to discover Dr. Bean of Kerckhoff Coffeehouse, and whom I visited in California last month -- I saw his comments on Psycho Toddler I also met PsychoToddler last month the same day I arrived home from California) and there was such a chemistry between the two men, such a unique level of wit/humor/medical knowledge, that I thought they were established friends who might've gone to med school together but were just separated by distance. That couldn't be further from the truth; they are just two guys who both happen to be doctors of internal medicine, family men, Orthodox Jews, both with great senses of humor, high intelligence and wielding the weapon of wit and eloquence!
On other blogs that I tune into, I watch the patterns of newcomers, as they announce their "newness" to the blogger and his readers, but later jump in with both feet to comment continuously and have a true online discourse throughout one or several posts. I have always been an observer of people; I've learned that I do not have to do this in person but can sit at my computer and watch total personalities unfold before my eyes; I can accurately pinpoint character traits, quirks and grievances of people way across the other side of the continent, or even across the world.
A post is a post, but sometimes the comments forum is a multilayered story, a story within a story, if you will. There might be tangents, but the underlying original message of the post will always resurface for the comments readers. Look at my favorite blog, Seraphic Secret, as Robert and Karen Avrech, through posts and comments, slowly unravel for their readers a most entertaining story of their courtship and Robert's longstanding "love from afar" for Karen Singer, who (thank G-d) in time became Karen Avrech -- oh, DOCTOR Karen Avrech!
And then there's the well-read (he is a well-read individual, and his blog is well-read by countless numbers of people) David Bogner of Treppenwitz. David has developed a wonderful style of writing that draws people in, making them want to comment. And even if David has 45 comments in one day (I check his comments throughout the day), for example, he is a most gracious blogging host. He will thank each and every one of us -- BY NAME! -- for our comments, by commenting on our comments. How nice is that?! I think (and here is where you also have to be honest) that we commenters, whether with David's posts or with someone else's, enjoy this acknowledgment. Neither the blogger's writing is in vain (as he knows he has a reading audience) nor is the commenter's writing in vain (as it is publicly acknowledged).
Admit it -- and I could name names here because I see that certain people are also frequent flyers to certain blogs; I bump into them a few times in the course of the day -- don't you like that little public pat on the head from David, or from PsychoToddler, or Robert, or from Mirty, Chaim, or Jack? I know that I do... but that is certainly not why I comment on people's posts; I comment because I have something I want to say...and sometimes our own personal soapbox just isn't the right place at the right time; sometimes we need to find another corner where we can rant, entertain, give advice and suggestions or just make our presence known.
...Ask What You Can Do For Your Blog.
You don't have to do anything; you all have managed to do it real well as far as I can tell. Keep up the good work!
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