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In the past I've written about how conscious of "lashon harah" we were in our home, growing up. My parents' favorite analogy was: "Words are like birds. Once they're out, they fly away and you can't always retrieve them."
I had a close girlfriend call me today, ask if I had a few minutes to speak, and something in her tone made me suspicious. And rightfully so. She was not calling just for an idle chitchat -- we'd had all last Shabbos afternoon to do that. She was calling to make me aware that I had hurt her feelings this past Shabbos with something I said, and that I have a bad habit of bringing something in her life to the forefront.
I wasn't shocked at what she told me; I was aware on Saturday that I made a comment in a joking manner that, once it was out of my mouth, I had a sense of what it must've sounded like, and couldn't really backpedal. I wasn't shocked, I was hurt...not at her announcement, but at the fact that I had hurt someone close to me and unintentionally.
I told my friend that I was thankful she'd told me my shortcoming; that was the only way that I was to learn how to improve myself and be aware of her sensitivity about the issue. I know people who bear their grievances silently for years; at some point in time there is a major outburst and all the grievances of years gone by come tumbling forth. That is certainly not the way to handle matters, but matters have to be dealt with at hand, or with just a small passage of time, perhaps to think through the approach "the victim" wants to take in order to make their grievances known.
My friend thanked me for being so accepting of what she had to tell me, but I said to her, "Why should I have been anything but? There is nothing for me to be defensive about. I thank you that you told me."
I told her my self-improvement in this area will not happen overnight, even if I try hard enough. I let her know that she can slap my wrist, so to speak, if I say something again that bothers her.
Being honest is sometimes a chance people take, and being on the receiving end of honesty isn't always what one wants to hear...but sometimes it's the only way they CAN HEAR.
Monday, August 01, 2005
How You Might Have Found Me
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I get such a kick out of seeing some of the entries that lead you to me, I have to note them every few days. Some leave me grinning, others leave my face frozen in the shape of a big question mark with "Huh?" scrawled across my forehead.
Aside from the repeated "Boy Vey!" or "Tefillat HaDerech" searches, some of these have been the key to helping you find me and my pearlies.
* wisdom for hard-headed kids ("I need to hear some of that wisdom!")
* "where the wild things are" + "temporary tattoo"
* kippah bruce willis ("Forget about my blog, what do those 2 items have in common, I wonder?")
* Hebrew Greek words mean pearl
* beis hamikdash and stock market ("What I would sacrifice for a hot stock market tip!")
* pearl of wisdom images
* bellagio macaroons recipe
* balabusta
* woman's queen size athletic clothing Toronto
Hey, I hope you found what you were looking for!
I get such a kick out of seeing some of the entries that lead you to me, I have to note them every few days. Some leave me grinning, others leave my face frozen in the shape of a big question mark with "Huh?" scrawled across my forehead.
Aside from the repeated "Boy Vey!" or "Tefillat HaDerech" searches, some of these have been the key to helping you find me and my pearlies.
* wisdom for hard-headed kids ("I need to hear some of that wisdom!")
* "where the wild things are" + "temporary tattoo"
* kippah bruce willis ("Forget about my blog, what do those 2 items have in common, I wonder?")
* Hebrew Greek words mean pearl
* beis hamikdash and stock market ("What I would sacrifice for a hot stock market tip!")
* pearl of wisdom images
* bellagio macaroons recipe
* balabusta
* woman's queen size athletic clothing Toronto
Hey, I hope you found what you were looking for!
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Sadness Speaks to Me
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Shavuah Tov, everyone. I hope those of you who observe Shabbos had a wonderful one, and those of you who don't, had a wonderful Saturday.
Many a time in my past posts, I've mentioned or hinted at my sensitivity. I have always had a very strong sense of compassion for the people around me, feeling what they were feeling: angst, melancholy, anger, sadness. But most of all, it is sadness that has always spoken to me.
I don't thrive on sad tidings, or emotional turmoil of others, but I do feel for people -- both friends or strangers -- when they are feeling low, whether they feel it for superficial reasons or for major crises. I try to let them know that I am there for them, if not in body, then in spirit. I share my thoughts and my words to help ease their personal pains; whether these words do anything at all, I don't know, but I want these people to know that I will listen, I will help if I'm able, I will offer suggestions if the person is seeking that; namely, I will be a friend or confidante if that is what they are needing.
Yes, I do take some things in my life for granted, but am trying to stray from that posture. After all, how can I do that, yet count my blessings at the same time? And believe me, I do count my blessings all the time.
In recognizing what problems, issues, family dynamics, etc. lay beyond mine, it is clear that I count my blessings even more -- thankful for family, thankful for health, thankful for a roof over our heads, thankful for a job, thankful for money in the bank, thankful for good friends and thankful for recognizing that we indeed have blessings.
It is most sad that sometimes it is only at the expense of someone else's sadness and despair that you recognize just how truly gifted and blessed you are. That someone else does not have to be a friend or someone close to you, but that someone does have a story to tell...and in reading that story, you realize that your own story doesn't amount to a hill of beans.
I've read some of those stories. I've felt my heart melt. I've cried those soulful tears. I've written those notes of compassion. I've let the people know that I, as a stranger, have been touched by their sadness, and I wish them some eventual peace of mind, peace of heart. I continue to read those stories. You should too. Then you might truly stop complaining about the small details in your life, look beyond and see that all you cherish sometimes is worth more than life itself.
Please read these stories, let your own heart melt and recognize that life and all it offers is never to be taken for granted.
www.seraphicpress.com
http://fiveyearslater.blogspot.com
http://glenh.blogspot.com
http://elie-expo.blogspot.com
Shavuah Tov, everyone. I hope those of you who observe Shabbos had a wonderful one, and those of you who don't, had a wonderful Saturday.
Many a time in my past posts, I've mentioned or hinted at my sensitivity. I have always had a very strong sense of compassion for the people around me, feeling what they were feeling: angst, melancholy, anger, sadness. But most of all, it is sadness that has always spoken to me.
I don't thrive on sad tidings, or emotional turmoil of others, but I do feel for people -- both friends or strangers -- when they are feeling low, whether they feel it for superficial reasons or for major crises. I try to let them know that I am there for them, if not in body, then in spirit. I share my thoughts and my words to help ease their personal pains; whether these words do anything at all, I don't know, but I want these people to know that I will listen, I will help if I'm able, I will offer suggestions if the person is seeking that; namely, I will be a friend or confidante if that is what they are needing.
Yes, I do take some things in my life for granted, but am trying to stray from that posture. After all, how can I do that, yet count my blessings at the same time? And believe me, I do count my blessings all the time.
In recognizing what problems, issues, family dynamics, etc. lay beyond mine, it is clear that I count my blessings even more -- thankful for family, thankful for health, thankful for a roof over our heads, thankful for a job, thankful for money in the bank, thankful for good friends and thankful for recognizing that we indeed have blessings.
It is most sad that sometimes it is only at the expense of someone else's sadness and despair that you recognize just how truly gifted and blessed you are. That someone else does not have to be a friend or someone close to you, but that someone does have a story to tell...and in reading that story, you realize that your own story doesn't amount to a hill of beans.
I've read some of those stories. I've felt my heart melt. I've cried those soulful tears. I've written those notes of compassion. I've let the people know that I, as a stranger, have been touched by their sadness, and I wish them some eventual peace of mind, peace of heart. I continue to read those stories. You should too. Then you might truly stop complaining about the small details in your life, look beyond and see that all you cherish sometimes is worth more than life itself.
Please read these stories, let your own heart melt and recognize that life and all it offers is never to be taken for granted.
www.seraphicpress.com
http://fiveyearslater.blogspot.com
http://glenh.blogspot.com
http://elie-expo.blogspot.com
Thursday, July 28, 2005
...You Don't Say...
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Recently a person whom I know from years ago, a younger sibling to a former classmate, had reason to talk to my husband in shul. She was arranging a Shabbos playdate for her daughter with mine and gladly passed her daughter off to my husband to spend lunch and the afternoon at the House of TorontoPearl.
My husband later took the little girl back to shul with him at mincha time, so that she could be reunited with her parent. Shabbos is out rather late here, and for a seven-year-old, who's had to walk a far distance to reach a new friend's house, "tired" was the word of the day.
The next day I received a phone call from the little girl's mother, thanking us profusely for hosting her daughter for so many hours. She went on to explain how she'd spotted my husband, knew he was with my daughter and that my daughter and her daughter were friends at day camp and that maybe they could get together later in the afternoon. My husband was the one to take the bull by the horns and put forth the invitation for lunch and the afternoon at our house and the suggestion of the "reunion" plans. This girl's mother said, "Your husband is very friendly. He's such a nice man."
You don't say...
I think I found my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow when I found him. When I first met him, he impressed me as friendly and genuine and warm. When friends and family met him, they considered him in the same way. When he and I were just engaged, the father-in-law of one of his bosses told me what a fine, menschlich young man I was involved with.
For people to see him the way I saw him meant a lot to me and told me a lot about him. For people to continue to see him in that way means a lot to me.
I could not have seen myself marry anyone BUT a nice and decent and warm and friendly guy like him. From his first day as a new father -- "How do I hold the baby?" -- to the seasoned father who does ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING for his wife and children and for the people around him -- I have never doubted my decision to marry this man, to give my heart to him and to grow old together with him.
In fact, I love him very much.
...You don't say...
*********************************
(If TorontoPearl's husband is reading this, just remember... we got engaged on August 22, 1993 and we got married on December 19, 1993 -- don't reverse the numbers!
I can just imagine you now, Toronto Pearl's husband. You're probably replying, "...You don't say...")
Recently a person whom I know from years ago, a younger sibling to a former classmate, had reason to talk to my husband in shul. She was arranging a Shabbos playdate for her daughter with mine and gladly passed her daughter off to my husband to spend lunch and the afternoon at the House of TorontoPearl.
My husband later took the little girl back to shul with him at mincha time, so that she could be reunited with her parent. Shabbos is out rather late here, and for a seven-year-old, who's had to walk a far distance to reach a new friend's house, "tired" was the word of the day.
The next day I received a phone call from the little girl's mother, thanking us profusely for hosting her daughter for so many hours. She went on to explain how she'd spotted my husband, knew he was with my daughter and that my daughter and her daughter were friends at day camp and that maybe they could get together later in the afternoon. My husband was the one to take the bull by the horns and put forth the invitation for lunch and the afternoon at our house and the suggestion of the "reunion" plans. This girl's mother said, "Your husband is very friendly. He's such a nice man."
You don't say...
I think I found my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow when I found him. When I first met him, he impressed me as friendly and genuine and warm. When friends and family met him, they considered him in the same way. When he and I were just engaged, the father-in-law of one of his bosses told me what a fine, menschlich young man I was involved with.
For people to see him the way I saw him meant a lot to me and told me a lot about him. For people to continue to see him in that way means a lot to me.
I could not have seen myself marry anyone BUT a nice and decent and warm and friendly guy like him. From his first day as a new father -- "How do I hold the baby?" -- to the seasoned father who does ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING for his wife and children and for the people around him -- I have never doubted my decision to marry this man, to give my heart to him and to grow old together with him.
In fact, I love him very much.
...You don't say...
*********************************
(If TorontoPearl's husband is reading this, just remember... we got engaged on August 22, 1993 and we got married on December 19, 1993 -- don't reverse the numbers!
I can just imagine you now, Toronto Pearl's husband. You're probably replying, "...You don't say...")
Seek... and Ye Shall Find
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These recent searches might've led you to Pearlies of Wisdom:
1) words of wisdom on death of a street bum
2) Boy Vey! (I've had many of those searches, as I once critiqued (read: criticized!) a book by that title)
3) "Match Made in Manhattan" blog
4) "traveler's prayer" English translation Jewish
5) Welcome back to school messages for parents
6) tadig hints (I realized after I saw this search that I'd written about a Persian rice dish, tadig, that I'd enjoyed while in L.A. last month)
I really want to know about #1 and #5.
I've not eulogized any street bums, here or abroad.
But I could use a welcome back to school message. However, I picture it goes something like this:
"Welcome back to tuition headaches, financial strains, school supply lists, pettiness on the playground, cattiness in the classroom, hell in the hallway, parental peer pressure, lots of professional-development-days- so-you'd-better-find-a-caregiver-for-your-children-for-all-those-days-that-they're-off-and-you-and-your-husband-are-working, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.... Isn't it nice to be back? "
These recent searches might've led you to Pearlies of Wisdom:
1) words of wisdom on death of a street bum
2) Boy Vey! (I've had many of those searches, as I once critiqued (read: criticized!) a book by that title)
3) "Match Made in Manhattan" blog
4) "traveler's prayer" English translation Jewish
5) Welcome back to school messages for parents
6) tadig hints (I realized after I saw this search that I'd written about a Persian rice dish, tadig, that I'd enjoyed while in L.A. last month)
I really want to know about #1 and #5.
I've not eulogized any street bums, here or abroad.
But I could use a welcome back to school message. However, I picture it goes something like this:
"Welcome back to tuition headaches, financial strains, school supply lists, pettiness on the playground, cattiness in the classroom, hell in the hallway, parental peer pressure, lots of professional-development-days- so-you'd-better-find-a-caregiver-for-your-children-for-all-those-days-that-they're-off-and-you-and-your-husband-are-working, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.... Isn't it nice to be back? "
Adventures in Conversation -- AND "French Rabbit"
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I was flipping through a magazine late at night when an ad caught my eye. It was for a brand of wine from Australia; I couldn't care less about the product, but the ad, an interesting one, associated the wine with "Adventures in Conversation." There was a kind of road map running across a 2-page spread, a foldout page, and scattered along the road map were points of reference. They got me thinking about what we do when we hold conversations, and here are the points of reference for you to think about.
Describe
Ponder
Question
Relate
Engage
Postulate
Advise
Contrast
Toast
Offend
Apologize
Suggest
React
Celebrate
Coax
Confide
Analyze
Savor
Listen
Speculate
Compare
Giggle
DIvulge
and lastly...
DISCOVER
Okay, now talk amongst yourselves....
***************************************
Today I received an e-mail ad for a new product put out by the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, a board that was so uncontrolled, that the countless numbers of people who work there were going to go on strike...but it somehow got bypassed last evening.
Anyhow this ad was for a new wine, packaged not in a bottle or flask, but in a TETRA PACK -- those recyclable cardboard boxes that hold milk or juice.
FIrstly, I wouldn't be buying any kind of alcohol, even a good wine, in a TETRA PACK.
Secondly, I wouldn't buy a wine product that's called "French Rabbit." It sounds much too gross for me, certainly not like the name of a wine. It sounds like a cocktail --"Yes, I'll have a French Rabbit...hold the cherry." Or like a very erotic French film: "Yeah, I went with my friends to see 'French Rabbit' at the Fox Cinema in the Beaches. Truffaut knew what he was doing when he made that film. I didn't even need the subtitles; I understood pretty much of what was happening from what I saw on-screen."
"French Rabbit" -- ewwwwww.......
I was flipping through a magazine late at night when an ad caught my eye. It was for a brand of wine from Australia; I couldn't care less about the product, but the ad, an interesting one, associated the wine with "Adventures in Conversation." There was a kind of road map running across a 2-page spread, a foldout page, and scattered along the road map were points of reference. They got me thinking about what we do when we hold conversations, and here are the points of reference for you to think about.
Describe
Ponder
Question
Relate
Engage
Postulate
Advise
Contrast
Toast
Offend
Apologize
Suggest
React
Celebrate
Coax
Confide
Analyze
Savor
Listen
Speculate
Compare
Giggle
DIvulge
and lastly...
DISCOVER
Okay, now talk amongst yourselves....
***************************************
Today I received an e-mail ad for a new product put out by the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, a board that was so uncontrolled, that the countless numbers of people who work there were going to go on strike...but it somehow got bypassed last evening.
Anyhow this ad was for a new wine, packaged not in a bottle or flask, but in a TETRA PACK -- those recyclable cardboard boxes that hold milk or juice.
FIrstly, I wouldn't be buying any kind of alcohol, even a good wine, in a TETRA PACK.
Secondly, I wouldn't buy a wine product that's called "French Rabbit." It sounds much too gross for me, certainly not like the name of a wine. It sounds like a cocktail --"Yes, I'll have a French Rabbit...hold the cherry." Or like a very erotic French film: "Yeah, I went with my friends to see 'French Rabbit' at the Fox Cinema in the Beaches. Truffaut knew what he was doing when he made that film. I didn't even need the subtitles; I understood pretty much of what was happening from what I saw on-screen."
"French Rabbit" -- ewwwwww.......
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Color My World
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Doctor Bean has just assisted in doing emergency surgery on my blog, patiently and wisely guiding me through a "colorotechnosis"-- helping to reinstate color into my life.
I thank you and my blog thanks you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
In his infinite wisdom, he has also helped me discover other buttons missing from my life that could be a definite turn-on, such as "font" and "size". (excuse my tongue-in-cheekiness)
I think I will put them all to good use.
Thank you, Doctor Bean. Payment is pending...
Doctor Bean has just assisted in doing emergency surgery on my blog, patiently and wisely guiding me through a "colorotechnosis"-- helping to reinstate color into my life.
I thank you and my blog thanks you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
In his infinite wisdom, he has also helped me discover other buttons missing from my life that could be a definite turn-on, such as "font" and "size". (excuse my tongue-in-cheekiness)
I think I will put them all to good use.
Thank you, Doctor Bean. Payment is pending...
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Shabbos Nachamu...or Life's Funny Like That
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Shabbos Nachamu holds some personal significance for me.
One summer(perhaps 1991) I was in NY's Catskill Mountains at a NY-based singles' Shabbos Nachamu weekend being held at the Concord Hotel. I'd traveled to NYC to be with a girl whom I'd become friends with the previous summer at a Niagara Falls singles' shabbaton. She'd planned ahead that we'd spend the weekend at the Concord and so she made plans through a NY-based group for the two of us, as well as for 3 or 4 of her friends that were going to be there too.
It was a fun Shabbos Nachamu weekend, even if I didn't meet the man of my dreams.
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1993. I've already been dating "the one" since December 1992 and we'd decided that some point in the summertime we'd get engaged. I spent Shabbos Nachamu 1993 at "the one's" mother's home, with "the one" being housed in a room down the hall. I recall when Shabbos was over and I called my parents to wish them a shavuah tov, my father got on the line and said "NU? So any news?" "No, Dad...don't worry, it'll happen." He told me that he remembers that back home (in Shtetlville)that people got engaged around this time. (Okay, so my father and mother, as well as I, only had to wait a few more weeks for that special moment.)
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1997. I'm married, and later in the afternoon I'm having contractions with baby # 2, so it's not really a relaxing Shabbos as the name depicts. We hope to hold out till Shabbos is over, but that doesn't happen. We have a prearranged taxi service with set fee and $ for the driver to pick up (we looked into the halachic aspects...just in case of this scenario), we go to the hospital, and baby daughter is born about 25 minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that, Shabbos Nachamu is over, and we happily get to call family members and let them know how we spent our Shabbos Nachamu.
In hindsight, perhaps we should have given our daughter the name "Nechama"/comfort, in honor of the day she was born. But even without that name, but with her other two beautiful given names, she is a continual comfort in our lives.
Thinking ahead, I hope you all have a wonderful and significant Shabbos Nachamu yourselves.
Shabbos Nachamu holds some personal significance for me.
One summer(perhaps 1991) I was in NY's Catskill Mountains at a NY-based singles' Shabbos Nachamu weekend being held at the Concord Hotel. I'd traveled to NYC to be with a girl whom I'd become friends with the previous summer at a Niagara Falls singles' shabbaton. She'd planned ahead that we'd spend the weekend at the Concord and so she made plans through a NY-based group for the two of us, as well as for 3 or 4 of her friends that were going to be there too.
It was a fun Shabbos Nachamu weekend, even if I didn't meet the man of my dreams.
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1993. I've already been dating "the one" since December 1992 and we'd decided that some point in the summertime we'd get engaged. I spent Shabbos Nachamu 1993 at "the one's" mother's home, with "the one" being housed in a room down the hall. I recall when Shabbos was over and I called my parents to wish them a shavuah tov, my father got on the line and said "NU? So any news?" "No, Dad...don't worry, it'll happen." He told me that he remembers that back home (in Shtetlville)that people got engaged around this time. (Okay, so my father and mother, as well as I, only had to wait a few more weeks for that special moment.)
Fast forward to Shabbos Nachamu 1997. I'm married, and later in the afternoon I'm having contractions with baby # 2, so it's not really a relaxing Shabbos as the name depicts. We hope to hold out till Shabbos is over, but that doesn't happen. We have a prearranged taxi service with set fee and $ for the driver to pick up (we looked into the halachic aspects...just in case of this scenario), we go to the hospital, and baby daughter is born about 25 minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that, Shabbos Nachamu is over, and we happily get to call family members and let them know how we spent our Shabbos Nachamu.
In hindsight, perhaps we should have given our daughter the name "Nechama"/comfort, in honor of the day she was born. But even without that name, but with her other two beautiful given names, she is a continual comfort in our lives.
Thinking ahead, I hope you all have a wonderful and significant Shabbos Nachamu yourselves.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Bloggers... A Class of Their Own
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"Class, I'm TorontoPearl, and today I will be your substitute teacher."
Boos and hisses, grumbles and mumbles can be heard.
"Where's the regular teacher? Why is she missing? Did she give you a hint as to what she's up to?" calls out Rochelle Krich.
"Oh, Miss Manners is off on a holiday from blogging for this afternoon."
"Does this mean we have to listen to you?" blurts out Jackbenimble.
"Oh, Jack, be quiet!" says Stacey. "Stop behaving like the monkey you are."
"Who's talking, Shmatta Queen, ex-Clevelander? Why should I be quiet -- U2 have to be quiet!"
"Class, class. I don't have very long to teach you this lesson, so please pay attention. Pick up your notepads and start writing this stuff down."
"Can I use my Treo?" asks Doctor Bean.
And ball-and-chain, his best friend, is sitting beside him in some fabulous red leather chair that she brought from home. "I'll let Doctor Bean take notes for me," she announces.
"And I think I'll use my new pen with its vibrating tip," adds Psycho Toddler.
"Hey, guys, just listen to the nice teacher. You all sound like a bunch of noisy bees in their hives," says Treppenwitz.
"Okay, thank you --"
"Psst, Robert! Can you keep a secret?" whispers Karen in the back row.
(Robert looks over his shoulder.) "Y-yeah, I-I can," he stutters anxiously.
"I think you love me," announces Karen.
"I love you!?" blurts out Robert, suddenly realizing that everyone has heard. He feels a headache coming on.
The class breaks out in songsong: "Robert loves Karen...and he's gonna marry her... Robert and Karen, sitting in a tree, talking about movies, and the Lincoln Square shul, he's gonna marry her when they're well out of school!"
"Silence, class. As I said, I'm not here for a long time, so please show some respect. Be polite. And save your comments for after class. Now, I'd like someone to name me some tips that you need to know about being a blogger."
A young man raises his hand.
"Yes, A Simple Jew?"
He speaks quietly but firmly. "One should use fewer words to have the most impact. One should speak from the heart, and if necessary and available, use citations."
"Very good. Now that young man, over there... Neil. Please answer the same question."
"One should certainly consider his or her audience. Pretend you're a teacher relating to students or a rabbi relating to his congregants. A few jokes can't hurt, either, nor can some references to classic TV shows and books."
"And you, Mr. Rubin. Put down that CD of Matisyahu; now is not music class. So what do you offer the class?"
"Um, LIFE is what you make it."
"I'll drink to that!" pipes up Air Time. "L'chaim! Hey, if we're drinking, maybe we should be eating too. How about some barbecued kishka and steaks?"
OrthoMom, Still Wonderin' and Just Passing Through start talking amongst themselves in the corner of the classroom.
"You three are being very rude. Avoid inside jokes -- you're alienating the rest of the class. Now, Mirty...where's sweet Mirty?"
"She went to Israel," advises Stacey. "We're gonna miss her for a couple of weeks, aren't we, guys?"
"Ye...s....s..." is heard in unison.
"Does anyone else have a comment to make about today's topic of discussion?"
"Do you people like outspokeness? I like outspokeness...I like honesty...I like to rant about my parents and the people around me. I'm very tongue-in-cheek, but I think people like that, too," offers up Yettabettaboo.
"Very, very good, class. I like what you had to say. Now we will have a very quick spelling lesson, so please take notes:
"Your does NOT MEAN you are. Your is the possessive form of something belonging to you. YOU'RE means you are. Get that straight.
"Its is the possessive form of something belonging to it. IT'S means it is.
"But I think the bell just rang, so I have to stop here for now. I didn't get to ask everyone their thoughts on blogging today-- sorry, Ink As Rain, Ralphie, and as well, there were a few students, such as Sara, missing from this session. No doubt Five Years Later we'll see a new stream of students interested in blogging. And if we're lucky, perhaps RenReb will be a guest speaker at the next class. Class dismissed...!"
"Class, I'm TorontoPearl, and today I will be your substitute teacher."
Boos and hisses, grumbles and mumbles can be heard.
"Where's the regular teacher? Why is she missing? Did she give you a hint as to what she's up to?" calls out Rochelle Krich.
"Oh, Miss Manners is off on a holiday from blogging for this afternoon."
"Does this mean we have to listen to you?" blurts out Jackbenimble.
"Oh, Jack, be quiet!" says Stacey. "Stop behaving like the monkey you are."
"Who's talking, Shmatta Queen, ex-Clevelander? Why should I be quiet -- U2 have to be quiet!"
"Class, class. I don't have very long to teach you this lesson, so please pay attention. Pick up your notepads and start writing this stuff down."
"Can I use my Treo?" asks Doctor Bean.
And ball-and-chain, his best friend, is sitting beside him in some fabulous red leather chair that she brought from home. "I'll let Doctor Bean take notes for me," she announces.
"And I think I'll use my new pen with its vibrating tip," adds Psycho Toddler.
"Hey, guys, just listen to the nice teacher. You all sound like a bunch of noisy bees in their hives," says Treppenwitz.
"Okay, thank you --"
"Psst, Robert! Can you keep a secret?" whispers Karen in the back row.
(Robert looks over his shoulder.) "Y-yeah, I-I can," he stutters anxiously.
"I think you love me," announces Karen.
"I love you!?" blurts out Robert, suddenly realizing that everyone has heard. He feels a headache coming on.
The class breaks out in songsong: "Robert loves Karen...and he's gonna marry her... Robert and Karen, sitting in a tree, talking about movies, and the Lincoln Square shul, he's gonna marry her when they're well out of school!"
"Silence, class. As I said, I'm not here for a long time, so please show some respect. Be polite. And save your comments for after class. Now, I'd like someone to name me some tips that you need to know about being a blogger."
A young man raises his hand.
"Yes, A Simple Jew?"
He speaks quietly but firmly. "One should use fewer words to have the most impact. One should speak from the heart, and if necessary and available, use citations."
"Very good. Now that young man, over there... Neil. Please answer the same question."
"One should certainly consider his or her audience. Pretend you're a teacher relating to students or a rabbi relating to his congregants. A few jokes can't hurt, either, nor can some references to classic TV shows and books."
"And you, Mr. Rubin. Put down that CD of Matisyahu; now is not music class. So what do you offer the class?"
"Um, LIFE is what you make it."
"I'll drink to that!" pipes up Air Time. "L'chaim! Hey, if we're drinking, maybe we should be eating too. How about some barbecued kishka and steaks?"
OrthoMom, Still Wonderin' and Just Passing Through start talking amongst themselves in the corner of the classroom.
"You three are being very rude. Avoid inside jokes -- you're alienating the rest of the class. Now, Mirty...where's sweet Mirty?"
"She went to Israel," advises Stacey. "We're gonna miss her for a couple of weeks, aren't we, guys?"
"Ye...s....s..." is heard in unison.
"Does anyone else have a comment to make about today's topic of discussion?"
"Do you people like outspokeness? I like outspokeness...I like honesty...I like to rant about my parents and the people around me. I'm very tongue-in-cheek, but I think people like that, too," offers up Yettabettaboo.
"Very, very good, class. I like what you had to say. Now we will have a very quick spelling lesson, so please take notes:
"Your does NOT MEAN you are. Your is the possessive form of something belonging to you. YOU'RE means you are. Get that straight.
"Its is the possessive form of something belonging to it. IT'S means it is.
"But I think the bell just rang, so I have to stop here for now. I didn't get to ask everyone their thoughts on blogging today-- sorry, Ink As Rain, Ralphie, and as well, there were a few students, such as Sara, missing from this session. No doubt Five Years Later we'll see a new stream of students interested in blogging. And if we're lucky, perhaps RenReb will be a guest speaker at the next class. Class dismissed...!"
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Transformers ... Take on a New Life
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It came to my attention recently that Steven Spielberg, who seems to have his hand in every pie in Hollywood, will be the executive producer of an upcoming movie based on the Transformers animated TV show, and Transformers toys.
These are exactly as named: robots who, when you twist and turn their body parts, become other objects -- eg. hiding behind the belly of a large robot might be a fire engine or a driver's head in a race car. It allows for hours of fun for young children and some adults, as well.
My oldest son, now 10, has had a few of these in his possession, and once in a while when I'd be scouring in his toy collection for something else, perhaps a missing Legos piece, I'd find a small Transformer. I'd sit there -- transfixed! -- as I'd make discoveries within this toy while manipulating it.
When I read today about the upcoming movie, I couldn't help but be reminded of a post I read late last summer on Seraphic Secret. Robert Avrech had talked about hosting Shabbat guests who were there for a Shabbaton, and how they'd been attracted to Robert's Emmy Award, as well as to the collection of Transformers that Ariel's room housed. He and Karen were somehow torn, feeling the need to perhaps let one of the Shabbaton's participants take one of the toys away with him, yet wanting to maintain their precious memories of their son and the collection he was so fond of, therefore not parting with them.
When I was in L.A. last month, I asked Robert if I could see Ariel's room; he gladly showed it to me and I saw all the seforim and all the young boy's and young adult's personal interests displayed, including the beloved Transformers.
Robert and Karen's sweet, young nephew, Yoni, visiting from Israel, had played with Ariel's Transformers throughout Shabbos. He, too, had been transfixed by them and the different personas they took on.
When Shabbos was over, Havdalah was done and extended family members and I were dispersing for the night, I saw Karen ask Yoni if he'd like to have one of the Transformers, telling the boy this particular Transformer's name and letting him know that his cousin Ariel had enjoyed the toy immensely. Robert stood nearby and reiterated that Ariel had a wonderful time playing with these toys.
Yoni's face lit up with this gift, this gift that would travel with the boy from California, to New York and back to Efrat, Israel. This gift that truly had been a gift from the heart.
Transformers... They have a way of transforming people, as well.
It came to my attention recently that Steven Spielberg, who seems to have his hand in every pie in Hollywood, will be the executive producer of an upcoming movie based on the Transformers animated TV show, and Transformers toys.
These are exactly as named: robots who, when you twist and turn their body parts, become other objects -- eg. hiding behind the belly of a large robot might be a fire engine or a driver's head in a race car. It allows for hours of fun for young children and some adults, as well.
My oldest son, now 10, has had a few of these in his possession, and once in a while when I'd be scouring in his toy collection for something else, perhaps a missing Legos piece, I'd find a small Transformer. I'd sit there -- transfixed! -- as I'd make discoveries within this toy while manipulating it.
When I read today about the upcoming movie, I couldn't help but be reminded of a post I read late last summer on Seraphic Secret. Robert Avrech had talked about hosting Shabbat guests who were there for a Shabbaton, and how they'd been attracted to Robert's Emmy Award, as well as to the collection of Transformers that Ariel's room housed. He and Karen were somehow torn, feeling the need to perhaps let one of the Shabbaton's participants take one of the toys away with him, yet wanting to maintain their precious memories of their son and the collection he was so fond of, therefore not parting with them.
When I was in L.A. last month, I asked Robert if I could see Ariel's room; he gladly showed it to me and I saw all the seforim and all the young boy's and young adult's personal interests displayed, including the beloved Transformers.
Robert and Karen's sweet, young nephew, Yoni, visiting from Israel, had played with Ariel's Transformers throughout Shabbos. He, too, had been transfixed by them and the different personas they took on.
When Shabbos was over, Havdalah was done and extended family members and I were dispersing for the night, I saw Karen ask Yoni if he'd like to have one of the Transformers, telling the boy this particular Transformer's name and letting him know that his cousin Ariel had enjoyed the toy immensely. Robert stood nearby and reiterated that Ariel had a wonderful time playing with these toys.
Yoni's face lit up with this gift, this gift that would travel with the boy from California, to New York and back to Efrat, Israel. This gift that truly had been a gift from the heart.
Transformers... They have a way of transforming people, as well.
I Need Some Color in My (Blogging) Life
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Okay, you masters of your own domains, could you please advise me on how to do something with Blogger.
When I first started my blog back in December, I had the color feature on my basic page template, alongside bf, itals, spell check, etc. I can't recall what button I hit that I shouldn't have, but I did hit something, and the color disappeared from my life.
I'd loved the color, which I could use for emphasis or creative tactics in my posts. And I've missed it ever since it went missing in action many months ago.
It's time to get that tool back. So could you please tell me how/where to place it back on my open blogger page masthead, so that I can begin to feature color in my posts?
Without that color button, I'm feeling blue, and a bit green with envy when I see other bloggers featuring color in their posts.
Help me get Technicolor (TM) back into my (blogging) life!
Okay, you masters of your own domains, could you please advise me on how to do something with Blogger.
When I first started my blog back in December, I had the color feature on my basic page template, alongside bf, itals, spell check, etc. I can't recall what button I hit that I shouldn't have, but I did hit something, and the color disappeared from my life.
I'd loved the color, which I could use for emphasis or creative tactics in my posts. And I've missed it ever since it went missing in action many months ago.
It's time to get that tool back. So could you please tell me how/where to place it back on my open blogger page masthead, so that I can begin to feature color in my posts?
Without that color button, I'm feeling blue, and a bit green with envy when I see other bloggers featuring color in their posts.
Help me get Technicolor (TM) back into my (blogging) life!
Shabbos: The Long & Short of It
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(cross-posted on THE JEWISH CONNECTION)
I like my Shabbos "shlufs" -- my two to three-hour afternoon naps...the time to catch up on all the sleep that I lost out on when I was at the computer late at night during the week.
Problem is: sometimes I get to nap, other times I don't.
Sometimes it's too busy in our household, with the children having guests, with my own children who have no guests needing to be entertained, with the parents having guests, with our family invited out, with our Shabbos afternoon outings to the nearby park, where the children play baseball or on the playground equipment and the adults catch up on the news of the week.
In our community, which is a bit widespread, we live at the top end, thus making it somewhat of a hike from shul to visit the TorontoPearl family. I grew up with a 25 minute walk to shul, so it's not a big stretch for me, but sometimes my two youngest children feel that they're on a walkathon...without anyone having sponsored them! It's a pleasure for them...and me...when they tote along friends from shul for lunch and for a Shabbos play date. The route home doesn't seem as long in the company of good and cherished friends.
When we adults invite friends for Shabbos lunch, we have to think long and hard over whom to invite: Will they make the walk? Will they want to stay till Shabbos is out, if they find it too long a walk back home?
I'm certainly not always in the entertaining mood (remember, I like those long Shabbos afternoon naps) but when we do host, it's such a nice thing. My husband and I work side by side in the kitchen to prepare the talked-about menu, with me often his sous-chef and he taking the lead. But this joint effort results in a lovely-set table, a delicious menu, and the feeling that "we're in this together!"
Sometimes he gets the compliments directed to him for things I made, sometimes I get the compliments for things made by him. We share the compliments, the spotlight and the company.
Today's company did make the walk even though the adults are plagued by knee joint problems and the like. These were people whom I don't see all that often, but who, when we do host them or if we end up at their Shabbos table, have a wonderful, time together. We are equally blessed that two of our sons are good friends.
Kiddush/Shabbos lunch became an afternoon stay. To hell with my nap, I thought, I'm really enjoying this conversation and the presence of these people. The afternoon stay became Seudat Shlishit, followed by the end of Shabbos. I even jokingly invited the couple and their kids to stay over for breakfast...as they were on such a roll.
But of course, I was being cheeky, as Sunday (it's now already Sunday as I type this) is a fast day.
Good food, friendly and down-to-earth families, hearty laughs, good conversation, lovely zmirot, and children running in and out of the room...help make "this day of rest" what it is: a pleasure.
(cross-posted on THE JEWISH CONNECTION)
I like my Shabbos "shlufs" -- my two to three-hour afternoon naps...the time to catch up on all the sleep that I lost out on when I was at the computer late at night during the week.
Problem is: sometimes I get to nap, other times I don't.
Sometimes it's too busy in our household, with the children having guests, with my own children who have no guests needing to be entertained, with the parents having guests, with our family invited out, with our Shabbos afternoon outings to the nearby park, where the children play baseball or on the playground equipment and the adults catch up on the news of the week.
In our community, which is a bit widespread, we live at the top end, thus making it somewhat of a hike from shul to visit the TorontoPearl family. I grew up with a 25 minute walk to shul, so it's not a big stretch for me, but sometimes my two youngest children feel that they're on a walkathon...without anyone having sponsored them! It's a pleasure for them...and me...when they tote along friends from shul for lunch and for a Shabbos play date. The route home doesn't seem as long in the company of good and cherished friends.
When we adults invite friends for Shabbos lunch, we have to think long and hard over whom to invite: Will they make the walk? Will they want to stay till Shabbos is out, if they find it too long a walk back home?
I'm certainly not always in the entertaining mood (remember, I like those long Shabbos afternoon naps) but when we do host, it's such a nice thing. My husband and I work side by side in the kitchen to prepare the talked-about menu, with me often his sous-chef and he taking the lead. But this joint effort results in a lovely-set table, a delicious menu, and the feeling that "we're in this together!"
Sometimes he gets the compliments directed to him for things I made, sometimes I get the compliments for things made by him. We share the compliments, the spotlight and the company.
Today's company did make the walk even though the adults are plagued by knee joint problems and the like. These were people whom I don't see all that often, but who, when we do host them or if we end up at their Shabbos table, have a wonderful, time together. We are equally blessed that two of our sons are good friends.
Kiddush/Shabbos lunch became an afternoon stay. To hell with my nap, I thought, I'm really enjoying this conversation and the presence of these people. The afternoon stay became Seudat Shlishit, followed by the end of Shabbos. I even jokingly invited the couple and their kids to stay over for breakfast...as they were on such a roll.
But of course, I was being cheeky, as Sunday (it's now already Sunday as I type this) is a fast day.
Good food, friendly and down-to-earth families, hearty laughs, good conversation, lovely zmirot, and children running in and out of the room...help make "this day of rest" what it is: a pleasure.
Friday, July 22, 2005
What's Up with AOL -- Part 2
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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.
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